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BURNS' SONGS. 






PKINTEJ) BY 

C. WH1TTINGHAM, 

CHISWICK. 



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SONGS or BURNS 




I . Stoth;u-d , R . A piux" 



',7//'r asleep, by thy murmuring strt 
7lon> /h-ntlu fifeet . tfton. disturb net her dream. 

pag-e 36. 



".UMLLY . 
1824. 



SONGS, 



CHIEFLY IN THE 



SCOTTISH DIALECT. 



ROBERT BURNS. 



LONDON : 

PUBLISHED BY JOHN SHARPE, 

DUKE STREET, PICCADILLY. 

M DCCC XXIV. 






MR. HUTCHISON. 
I8M/0- 



*o 



CONTENTS. 



Pagre 

Songs 1 



POSTHUMOUS POEMS. 

To Mary in Heaven 181 

Lines on an Interview with Lord Daer 183 

On a Young Lady 185 

On the Death of a Lap-dog 186 

Inscription to the Memory of Fergusson 186 

The Chevalier's Lament 187 

Epistle to R. Graham, Esq 188 

Fragment, inscribed to the right Hon. C. J. Fox 191 

To Dr. Blacklock 192 

Prologue, spoken at Ellisland, on New-year's Day Evening 195 

Elegy on Miss Burnet 196 

The Rights of Woman 197 

Address; spoken by Miss Fontenelle 199 

A Vision 200 

Written on the blank Leaf of a Copy of his Poems pre- 

sented-to a Lady 202 



PIECES 

SUBJOINED TO THE CORRESPONDENCE. 

Page 

Address to Mr. W. Tytler 203 

To a Gentleman who had sent the Author a Newspaper, 

and offered to continue it free of Expense 204 

On Pastoral Poetry 206 

On the Battle of Sheriff Muir, between the Duke of Ar- 
gyll and the Earl of Mar 208 

Sketch.— New Year's Day 210 

Extempore, on the late Mr. Smellie 212 

Inscription for an Altar to Independence 212 

Sonnet on the Death of Robert Riddel, Esq 213 

Monody on a Lady famed for. her Caprice • , 213 

Answer to a Mandate sent by the Surveyor of the Windows, . 

Carriages, &c 215 

Impromptu, on Mrs. 's Birth-day 217 

To a young Lady, Miss Jessy L 217 

Sonnet, on hearing a Thrush sing in a Morning Walk .... 218 
Extempore, to Mr. S**e, on refusing to dine with him... 219 

To Mr. S**e ; with a Present of a Dozen of Porter 219 

To Mr. Mitchell, Collector of Excise 219 

To a Gentleman whom he had offended 221 

On Life; to Colonel De Peyster 221 

Address to the Toothache 223 

Written in a Wrapper enclosing a Letter to Capt. Grose 224 

To Robert Graham, Esq. of Fintry < 226 

Epitaph on a Friend 226 

A Grace before Dinner 227 

On Sensibility.— -To Mrs. Dunlop, of Dunlop 227 

To the Master of the House, on taking Leave at a Place 
in the Highlands., 228 



CONTENTS. 



RELIQUES OF BURNS. 

Page 

Verses written at Selkirk 229 

Liberty. A Fragment 232 

Elegy on the Death of Robert Ruisseaux 233 

Answer to Verses addressed to the Poet by the Guidwife 

of Wauchope-house 234 

Burns Extempore on the Loyal Natives' Verses 236 

To J. Lapraik 237 

To the Rev. John M'Math, enclosing Holy Willie's Prayer 239 

To Gavin Hamilton, Esq. recommending a Boy 243 

To Mr. M'Adam 245 

To Captain Riddel, on returning a Newspaper 246 

To Terraughty, on his Birth-day 247 

To a Lady, with a Pair of drinking Glasses 248 

The Vowels. A Tale 249 

Sketch 250 

Scots Prologue, for Mr. Sutherland's Benefit 251 

Extempore on appointment to the Excise 253 

The Dean of Faculty. A new Ballad 253 

Extempore in the Court of Session 254 

To J. Rankeu 255 

On the Rev. Dr. B 256 

On a Schoolmaster in Cleish Parish 256 

Address to General Dumourier , 257 

Elegy on the Year 1788 257 

Verses on the the Portrait of Fergusson 259 



SONGS, 

CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. 



SONGS, 

CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. 



A ROSE-BUD BY MY EARLY WALK. 

Tune— The Shepherd's Wife. 

A rose-bud by my early walk, 
Adown a corn-enclosed bawk, 
Sae gently bent its thorny stalk, 
All on a dewy morning. 

Ere twice the shades o' dawn are fled, 
In a' its crimson glory spread, 
And drooping rich the dewy head, 
It scents the early morning. 

Within the bush, her covert nest 
A little linnet fondly prest, 
The dew sat chilly on her breast 
Sae early in the morning. 

She soon shall see her tender brood, 
The pride, the pleasure o' the wood, 
Amang the fresh green leaves bedew'd, 
Awake the early morning. 

b 2 



BURNS* SONGS, 

So thou, dear bird, young Jeany fair, 
On trembling string or vocal air, 
Shall sweetly pay the tender care 
That tents thy early morning. 

So thou, sweet rose-bud, young and gay, 
Shalt beauteous blaze upon the day, 
And bless the parent's evening ray 
That watch'd thy early morning. 



II. 

THE FAREWELL, TO THE BRETHREN OF ST. 
JAMES'S LODGE, TARBOLTON. 

TUNE — Guid night, and joy be wV you a? 

Adieu! a heart- warm, fond adieu! 

Dear brothers of the mystic tie I 
Ye favour 'd, ye enlighten d few, 

Companions of my social joy ! 
Tho' I to foreign lands must hie, 

Pursuing Fortune's slidd'ry ha', 
With melting heart, and brimful eye, 

I'll mind you still, tho' far awa. 

Oft have I met your social band, 

And spent the cheerful, festive night ; 
Oft, honour'd with supreme command, 

Presided o'er the sons of light : 
And by that hieroglyphic bright, 

Which none but craftsmen ever saw ! 
Strong memory on my heart shall write 

Those happy scenes when far awa ; 



CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. 

May freedom, harmony, and love, 

Unite you in the grand design, 
Beneath th* omniscient eye above, 

The glorious architect divine ! 
That you may keep th' unerring line, 

Still rising by the plummet's law, 
Till order bright completely shine, 

Shall be my pray'r when far awa. 

And you, farewell ! whose merits claim, 

Justly, that highest badge to wear ! 
Heav'n bless your honour'd, noble name, 

To Masonry and Scotia dear ! 
A last request permit me here, 

When yearly ye assemble a', 
One round, I ask it with a tear, 

To him, the Bard that's far awa. 



III. 

Tune — The muckin o' Geor die's byre. 

Adown winding Nith I did wander, 

To mark the sweet flowers as they spring ; 

Adown winding Nith I did wander, 
Of Phillis to muse and to sing. 

CHORUS. 

Awa wi' your belles and your beauties, 
They never wi' her can compare : 

Whaever has met wi' my Phillis, 
Has met wi' the queen o' the fair. 



6 BURNS' SONGS, 

The daisy amus'd my fond fancy, 

So artless, so simple, so wild; 
Thou emblem, said I, o' my Phillis, 

For she is simplicity's child. 
Awa, fyc. 

The rose-bud's the blush o' my charmer, 
Her sweet balmy lip when 'tis prest : 

How fair and how pure is the lily, 
But fairer and purer her breast. 
Awa, fyc* 

Yon knot of gay flowers in the arbour, 

They ne'er wi' my Phillis can vie : 
Her breath is the breath o' the woodbine, 

Its dew-drop o' diamond, her eye. 
Awa, fyc. 

Her voice is the song of the morning 

That wakes through the green-spreading grove, 
When Phoebus peeps over the mountains, 

On music, and pleasure, and love. 
Awa, fyc. 

But beauty how frail and how fleeting, 

The bloom of a fine summer's day ! 
While worth in the mind o' my Phillis 

Will flourish without a decay. 
Awa, fyc. 



CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. 



IV. 

Ae fond kiss, and then we sever ; 
Ae fare weel, alas, for ever ! 
Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee, 
Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. 
Who shall say that fortune grieves him 
While the star of hope she leaves him ? 
Me, nae chearfu' twinkle lights me ; 
Dark despair around benights me. 

I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy, 
Naething could resist my Nancy : 
But to see her, was to love her ; 
Love but her, and love for ever. 
Had we never lov'd sae kindly, 
Had we never lov'd sae blindly, 
Never met — or never parted, 
We had ne'er been broken-hearted. 

Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest ! 
Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest ! 
Thine be ilka joy and treasure, 
Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure ! 
Ae fond kiss, and then we sever ; 
Ae fareweel, alas ! for ever ! 
Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee, 
Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. 



8 burns' songs, 

V. 

Tune — Jockey's Grey Breeks. 

Again rejoicing nature sees 

Her robe assume its vernal hues, 

Her leafy locks wave in the breeze, 
All freshly steep'd in morning dews. 

chorus l . 

And maun I still on Menie 7, doat, 
And bear the scorn that's in her ee? 

For it's jet, jet black, an 7 it's like a hawk. 
An* it winna let a body be ! 

In vain to me the cowslips blaw, 

In vain to me the vi'lets spring; 
In vain to me, in glen or shaw, 

The mavis and the lintwhite sing. 

And maun I still, fyc. 

The merry ploughboy cheers his team, 
Wi' joy the tentie seedsman stalks, 

But life to me's a weary dream, 
A dream of ane that never wauks. 

And maun I still, fyc. 

The wanton coot the water skims, 
Amang the reeds the ducklings cry, 

The stately swan majestic swims, 
And every thing is blest but I. 

And maun I still, fyc. 

1 This chorus is part of a song composed by a gentleman in Edin- 
burgh, a particular friend of the author's. 

2 Menie is the common abbreviation of Mariamne. 



CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. 

The sheep-herd steeks his faulding slap, 
And owre the moorlands whistles shill, 

Wi' wild, unequal, wand'ring step, 
I meet him on the dewy hill. 

Arid maun I still, fyc. 

And when the lark, 'tween light and dark, 
Blythe waukens by the daisy's side, 

And mounts and sings on flittering wings, 
A woe-worn ghaist, I hameward glide. 
And maun I still, fyc. 

Come, Winter, with thine angry howl, 
And raging bend the naked tree ; 

Thy gloom will soothe my cheerless soul, 
When nature all is sad like me ! 

CHORUS. 

And maun I still on Menie doat, 
And bear the scorn that's in her eel 

For it's jet, jet black, an its like a hawk, 
An' it winna let a body be. 



VI. 

FRAGMENT. 

Tun e — Gallawater. 

Altho' my bed were in yon muir, 
Amang the heather in my plaidie, 

Yet happy, happy would I be, 

Had I my dear Montgomerie's Peggy. 

b 3 



10 burns' songs, 

When o'er the hill beat surly storms, 
And winter nights were dark and rainy ; 

I'd seek some dell, and in my arms 
I'd shelter dear Montgomerie's Peggy. 

Were I a Baron proud and high, 

And horse and servants waiting ready, 

Then a' 'twad gie o' joy to me, 

The sharing with Montgomerie's Peggy. 



VII. 

Tune — The King of France, he rade a Race, 

Amang the trees where humming bees 

At buds and flowers were hinging, O 
Auld Caledon drew out her drone, 

And to her pipe was singing; O 
'Twas pibrock, sang, strathspey, or reels, 

She dirl'd them aff, fu' clearly, O 
When there cam a yell o' foreign squeels, 

That dang her tapsalteerie, O — 

Their capon craws and queer ha ha's, 

They made our lugs grow eerie, O 
The hungry bike did scrape and pike 

Till we were wae and weary : O — 
But a royal ghaist wha ance was cas'd 

A prisoner aughteen year awa, 
He fir'd a fiddler in the North, 

That dang them tapsalteerie, O. 



CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. H 



VIII. 

0, FOR ANE AND TWENTY, TAM. 

Tune — The Moudieivort. 

CHORUS. 

An O for ane and twenty, Tarn, 

An hey, sweet ane and twenty, Tarn ! 

Til learn my kin a rattlin sang, 
An I saw ane and twenty, Tarn* 

They snool me sair, and haud me down, 
And gar me look like bluntie, Tarn ! 

But three short years will soon wheel roun', 
And then comes ane and twenty, Tarn. 
An O for ane, fyc. 

A gleib o' Ian', a claut o' gear, 
Was left me by my auntie, Tarn ; 

At kith or kin I needna spier, 
An I saw ane and twenty, Tam. 
An O for ane, fyc. 

They'll hae me wed a wealthy coof, 
Tho' I myseF hae plenty, Tam ; 

But hear'st thou, laddie, there's my loof, 
I'm thine at ane and twenty, Tam. 
An O for ane, fyc. 



12 burns' songs, 

IX. 

GLOOMY DECEMBER. 

Ance mair I hail thee, thou gloomy December! 

Ance mair I hail thee wi' sorrow and care ; 
Sad was the parting thou makes me remember, 

Parting wi' Nancy, oh ! ne'er to meet mair. 
Fond lovers' parting is sweet painful pleasure, 

Hope beaming mild on the soft parting hour ; 
But the dire feeling, O farewell for ever, 

Is anguish unmingl'd and agony pure. 

Wild as the winter now tearing the forest, 

Till the last leaf o' the summer is flown, 
Such is the tempest has shaken my bosom, 

Since my last hope and last comfort is gone ; 
Still as I hail thee, thou gloomy December, 

Still shall I hail thee wi' sorrow and care ; 
For sad was the parting thou makes me remember, 

Parting wi' Nancy, oh ! ne'er to meet mair. 



Anna, thy charms my bosom fire, 
And waste my soul with care ; 

But, ah ; how bootless to admire 
When fated to despair ! 

Yet in thy presence, lovely fair ! 

To hope may be forgiven ; 
For sure 'twere impious to despair 

So much in sight of heaven. 



CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. 13 

XI. 

THE PLOUGHMAN. 

As I was a wand'ring ae morning in spring, 
I heard a young Ploughman sae sweetly to sing ; 
And as he was singin' thir words he did say, 
There's nae life like the Ploughman's in the month o' 
sweet May. — 

The lav'rock in the morning, shell rise frae her nest, 
And mount to the air wi' the dew on her breast, 
And wi' the merry Ploughman shell whistle and sing, 
And at night shell return to her nest back again. 



XII. 
HEY FOR A LASS WI' A TOCHER. 

Tune — Balinamona or a. 

Awa wi' your witchcraft o' beauty's alarms, 
The slender bit beauty you grasp in your arms : 
O, gie me the lass that has acres o' charms, 
O, gie me the lass wi' the weel-stockit farms. 

CHORUS. 

Then hey, f or a lass wi' a tocher, then hey, for a lass 

wV a tocher, 
Then hey, for a lass wi a tocher ; the nice yellow 

guineas for me. 



14 BURNS' SONGS, 

Your beauty's a flower in the morning that blows, 
And withers the faster, the faster it grows ; 
But the rapturous charm o' the bonnie green knowes. 
Ilk spring they're new deckit wi' bonnie white yowes, 
Then hey, Sfc, 

And e'en when this beauty your bosom has blest, 
The brightest o' beauty may cloy, when possest; 
But the sweet yellow darlings wi' Geordie imprest, 
The langer ye hae them — the mair they're carest. 
Then hey, Sfc. 



XIII. 

TUNE — My Nannie, O. 

Behind yon hills where Lugar 1 flows, 
'Mang moors and mosses many, O, 

The wintry sun the day has clos'd, 
And I'll awa to Nannie, O. 

The westlin wind blaws loud an' shill ; 

The night's baith mirk and rainy, O ; 
But I'll get my plaid, an' out I'll steal, 

An' owre the hills to Nannie, O. 

My Nannie's charming, sweet, an' young ; 

Nae artfu' wiles to win ye, O : 
May ill befa' the flattering tongue 

That wad beguile my Nannie, O. 

1 Originally, Stinchar. 



CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. 15 

Her face is fair, her heart is true, 

As spotless as she's bonnie, O ; 
The op'nitig gowan, wet wi dew, 

Nae purer is than Nannie, O. 

A country lad is my degree, 

An' few there be that ken me, O ; 
But what care I how few they be, 

I'm welcome aye to Nannie, O. 

My riches a's my penny-fee, 

An' I maun guide it cannie, O ; 
But warFs gear ne'er troubles me, 

My thoughts are a' my Nannie, O. 

Our auld Guidman delights to view 
His sheep an' kye thrive bonnie, O; 

But I'm as blythe that hauds his pleugh, 
An' has nae care but Nannie, O. 

Come weel, come woe, I carena by, 
I'll tak what Heav'n will send me, O ; 

Nae ither care in life have I, 

But live, an' love my Nannie, O. 



XIV. 

Tune — Oran-gaoiL 

Behold the hour, the boat arrive; 

Thou goest, thou darling of my heart ! 
Sever'd from thee can I survive? 

But fate has will'd, and we must part. 
I'll often greet this surging swell, 

Yon distant isle will often hail : 
M E'en here I took the last farewell; 

There latest mark'd her vanish'd sail." 



16 BURNS' SONGS, 

Along the solitary shore, 

While flitting sea-fowl round me cry, 
Across the rolling, dashing roar 

I'll westward turn my wistful eye : 
Happy, thou Indian grove, I'll say, 

Where now my Nancy's path may be ! 
While thro' thy sweets she loves to stray, 

O tell me, does she muse on me ? 



XV. 

CRAIGIE-BURN-WOOD. 

Beyond thee, dearie, beyond thee, dearie, 
And O to be lying beyond thee ; 

O sweetly, soundly, weel may he sleep, 
Thai's laid in the bed beyond thee* 

Sweet closes the evening on Craigie-burn-wood, 

And blithely awakens the morrow ; 
But the pride of the spring in the Craigie-burn-wood 

Can yield to me nothing but sorrow. 
Beyond thee, Sfc. 

I see the spreading leaves and flowers, 

I hear the wild birds singing ; 
But pleasure they hae nane for me, 

While care my heart is wringing. 
Beyond thee, Sfc. 

I canna tell, I maunna tell, 

I darena for your anger ; 
But secret love will break my heart, 

If I conceal it 1 anger. 

Beyond thee, Sfc. 



CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. 17 



I see thee graceful straight and tall, 
I see thee sweet and bonie ; 

But, oh! what will my torments be, 
If thou refuse thy Johnie ! 

Beyond thee, Sfc. 

To see thee in another's arms, 
In love to lie and languish, 

'Twad be my dead, that will be seen, 
My heart wad burst wi' anguish. 
Beyond thee, fyc. 

But Jeanie, say thou wilt be mine, 
Say, thou lo'es nane before me ; 

And a' my days o' life to come 
I'll gratefully adore thee. 

Beyond thee, $fc< 



XVI. 

BLITHE WAS SHE. 

Tune — Andrew and his cuttie gun. 

Blithe, blithe and merry was she, 
Blithe was she but and ben : 

Blithe by the banks of Ern, 
But blither in Glenturit glen. 

By Ouchtertyre grows the aik, 

On Yarrow banks, the birken shaw 

But Phemie was a bonnier lass 
Than braes o' Yarrow ever saw. 
Blithe, $t. 



18 BURNS 5 SONGS, 

Her looks were like a flower in May, 
Her smile was like a simmer morn ; 

She tripped by the banks of Ern 
As light's a bird upon a thorn. 
Blithe, fyc. 

Her bonnie face it was as meek 
As ony lamb's upon a lee ; 

The evening sun was ne'er sae sweet 
As was the blink o' Phemie's ee. 
Blithe, fyc. 

The Highland hills I've wander'd wide, 
And o'er the Lowlands I hae been ; 

But Phemie was the blithest lass 
That ever trod the dewy green. 
Blithe, Sfc. 



XVII. 

TlJNE — Liggeram Cosh. 

Blithe hae I been on yon hill, 

As the lambs before me ; 
Careless ilka thought and free, 

As the breeze flew o'er me : 
Now nae langer sport and play, 

Mirth or sang can please me ; 
Lesley is sae fair and coy, 

Care and anguish seize me. 



CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. 19 

Heavy, heavy is the task, 

Hopeless love declaring : 
Trembling, I dow nocht but glow'r, 

Sighing, dumb, despairing ! 
If she winna ease the thraws 

In my bosom swelling ; 
Underneath the grass-green sod 

Soon maun be my dwelling. 



XVIII. 

THE BIRKS OF ABERFELDY. 

Bonnie lassie, will ye go, will ye go, will ye go, 
Bonnie lassie, will ye go to the Birks of Aberfeldy? 

Now simmer blinks on flowery braes, 
And o'er the crystal streamlet plays, 
Come let us spend the lightsome days 
In the Birks of Aberfeldy. 

Bonnie lassie, fyc. 

While o'er their heads the hazels hing, 
The little birdies blithly sing, 
Or lightly flit on wanton wing 
In the Birks of Aberfeldy. 

Bonnie lassie, $*c. 

The braes ascend like lofty wa's, 
The foaming stream deep roaring fa's, 
O'er-hung wi' fragrant spreading shaws, 
The Birks of Aberfeldy. 

Bonnie lassie, §'c. 



20 burns' songs, 

The hoary cliffs are crown'd wi' flowers, 
White o'er the linns the burnie pours, 
And rising, weets wi' misty showers 
The Birks of Aberfeldy. 

Bonnie lassie, Sfc. 

Let fortune's gifts at random flee, 
They ne'er shall draw a wish frae me, 
Supremely blest wi' love and thee, 
In the Birks of Aberfeldy. 

Bonnie lassie , fyc. 



XIX. 

THE BONNIE WEE THING. 

Tune — The lads of Saltcoats. 

Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing, 
Lovely wee thing, wast thou mine, 

I wad wear thee in my bosom, 
Lest my jewel I should tine. 

Wishfully I look and languish 
In that bonnie face o' thine ; 

And my heart it stounds wi ? anguish, 
Lest my wee thing be na mine. 

Wit, and grace, and love, and beauty, 

In ae constellation shine ; 
To adore thee is my duty, 

Goddess o' this soul o' mine 1 
Bonnie wee, &c. 



CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. 21 

XX. 

THE AULD MAN. 
TUNE— The Death of the Linnet. 

But lately seen in gladsome green 

The woods rejoice the day, 
Thro* gentle showers the laughing flowers 

In double pride were gay : 
But now our joys are fled 

On winter blasts awa ! 
Yet maiden May, in rich array, 

Again shall bring them a\ 

But my white pow, nae kindly thowe 

Shall melt the snaws of age ; 
My trunk of eild, but buss or bield, 

Sinks in time's wintry rage. 
Oh, age has weary days, 

And nights o' sleepless pain ! 
Thou golden time o' you thru' prime, 

Why com'st thou not again ! 



22 burns' songs, 

XXI. 

Tune— Allan Water. 

By Allan stream I chanc'd to rove, 

While Phoebus sank beyond Benledi * ; 
The winds were whispering thro' the grove, 

The yellow corn was waving ready : 
I listen'd to a lover's sang, 

And thought on youthfV pleasures mony ; 
And aye the wild-wood echoes rang — 

O, dearly do I love thee, Annie ! 

O, happy be the woodbine bower, 

Nae nightly bogle mak it eerie ; 
Nor ever sorrow stain the hour, 

The place and time I met my dearie ! 
Her head upon my throbbing breast, 

She, sinking, said " Fm thine for ever!" 
While mony a kiss the seal imprest, 

The sacred vow, we ne'er should sever. 

The haunt o' spring's the primrose brae, 

The simmer joys the flocks to follow ; 
How cheery thro' her shortening day 

Is autumn, in her weeds o' yellow ! 
But can they melt the glowing heart, 

Or chain the soul in speechless pleasure, 
Or thro' each nerve the rapture dart, 

Like meeting her, our bosom's treasure ? 

1 A mountain west of Strath-Allan, 3009 feet high. 



CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. 23 

XXII. 

IMITATION OF AN OLD JACOBITE SONG. 

By yon castle wa', at the close of the day, 
I heard a man sing, tho' his head it was gray ; 
And as he was singing, the tears fast down came — 
There 11 never be peace till Jamie comes hame. 

The church is in ruins, the state is in jars, 
Delusions, oppressions, and murderous wars; 
We darena weel say't, but we ken wha's to blame — 
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. 

My seven braw sons for Jamie drew sword, 
And now I greet round their green beds in the yerd : 
It brak the sweet heart o' my faithfu' auld dame — 
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. 

Now life is a burden that bows me down, 
Sin' I tint my bairns, and he tint his crown ; 
But till my last moment my words are the same — 
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. 



XXIII. 

CANST THOU LEAVE ME THUS, MY KATY? 

Tune— Hoy's Wife. 

CHORUS. 

Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy? 
Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy? 
Well thou know' st my aching heart, 
And canst thou leave me thus for pity? 



24 BURNS SONGS, 

Is this thy plighted, fond regard, 
Thus cruelly to part, my Katy? 

Is this thy faithful swain's reward — 
An aching, broken heart, my Katy ? 
Canst thou, fyc. 

Farewell ! and ne'er such sorrows tear 
That fickle heart of thine, my Katy ! 

Thou may'st find those will love thee dear- 
But not a love like mine, my Katy. 
Canst thou, fyc. 



XXIV. 

Tune — Ca' the Yowes to the Knowes, 
CHORUS. 

Cat the yowes to the knowes, 
Ca! them where the heather grows, 
Co* them where the burnie rows, 
My bonnie dearie. 

Hark ! the mavis* evening sang 
Sounding Clouden's woods amang; 
Then a faulding let us gang, 
My bonnie dearie. 

Ca y the, fyc. 

We'll gae down by Clouden side, 
Thro* the hazels spreading wide, 
O'er the waves that sweetly glide 
To the moon sae clearly. 

Ca* the, fyc. 



CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. 2-3 

Yonder Clouden's silent towers, 
Where at moonshine midnight hours, 
O'er the dewy bending flowers, 
Fairies dance sae cheery. 

Ca the, fyc. 

Ghaist nor bogle shalt thou fear ; 
Thou'rt to love and heaven sae dear, 
Nocht of ill may come thee near, 
My bonnie dearie. 

CcC the, $c. 

Fair and lovely as thou art, 
Thou hast stown my very heart ; 
I can die — but canna part, 
My bonnie dearie. 

Ca ' the, fyc. 



XXV. 

CLARINDA. 

Clarinda, mistress of my soul, 
The measur'd time is run ! 

The wretch beneath the dreary pole 
So marks his latest sun. 

To what dark cave of frozen night 
Shall poor Sylvander hie ; 

Depriv'd of thee, his life and light, 
The sun of all his joy ? 

c 



26 BURNS' SONGS, 

We part — but by these precious drops 
That fill thy lovely eyes ! 

No other light shall guide my steps 
Till thy bright beams arise. 

She, the fair sun of all her sex, 
Has blest my glorious day : 

And shall a glimmering planet fix 
My worship to its ray ? 



XXVI. 

AlR — Cauld Kail. 

Come, let me take thee to my breast, 

And pledge we ne'er shall sunder; 
And I shall spurn as vilest dust 

The warld's wealth and grandeur : 
And do I hear my Jeanie own 

That equal transports move her ? 
1 ask for dearest life alone 

That I may live to love her. 

Thus in my arms, wi' all thy charms, 

I clasp my countless treasure ; 
I'll seek nae mair o' heaven to share, 

Than sic a moment's pleasure : 
And by thy een, sae bonnie blue, 

I swear I'm thine for ever ! 
And on thy lips I seal my vow, 

And break it shall I never. 



CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. 27 

XXVII. 

Tune — Lumps o' Pudding. 

Contented wi' little, and cantie wi' mair, 
Whene'er I forgather wi' sorrow and care, 
I gie them a skelp as they're creepin alang, 
Wi' a cog o' guid swats, and an auld Scottish sang. 

I whyles claw the elbow o' troublesome thought ; 
But man is a sodger, and life is a faught : 
My mirth and guid humour are coin in my pouch, 
And my Freedom's my lairdship nae monarch dare 
touch. 

A towmond o' trouble, should that be my fa', 
A night o' guid fellowship sowthers it a' : 
When at the blithe end o' our journey at last, 
Wha the deil ever thinks o' the road he has past? 

Blind chance, let her snapper and stoyte on her way, 
Be't to me, be't frae me, e'en let the jade gae : 
Come ease, or come travail ; come pleasure, or pain, 
My warst word is — " Welcome, and welcome again!" 



XXVIII. 

TUNE — The Colliers Dodder. 

Deluded swain, the pleasure 
The fickle Fair can give thee, 

Is but a fairy treasure, 

Thy hopes will soon deceive thee, 
c 2 



28 burns' songs, 

The billows on the ocean, 
The breezes idly roaming, 

The clouds' uncertain motion, 
They are but types of woman. 

O ! art thou not ashamed 
To doat upon a feature ? 

If man thou wouldst be named, 
Despise the silly creature. 

Go, find an honest fellow ; 

Good claret set before thee : 
Hold on till thou art mellow, 

And then to bed in glory. 



XXIX. 

THE DUMFRIES VOLUNTEERS. 

Tune — Push about the jorum. 

April, 1795. 

Does haughty Gaul invasion threat? 

Then let the loons beware, Sir, 
There's wooden walls upon our seas, 

And volunteers on shore, Sir. 
The Nith shall run to Corsincon, 

And Criffel sink in Sol way, 
Ere we permit a foreign foe 

On British ground to rally ! 

Fall de rail, fyc. 



CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. 29 

O let us not like snarling tykes 

In wrangling be divided ; 
Till slap come in an unco loon 

And wi' a rung decide it. 
Be Britain still to Britain true, 

Amang oursels united ; 
For never but by British hands 

Maun British wrangs be righted. 
Fall de rail, fyc. 

The kettle o' the kirk and state, 

Perhaps a claut may fail in't ; 
But deil a foreign tinkler loun 

Shall ever ca' a nail in't. 
Our fathers' bluid the kettle bought, 

And wha wad dare to spoil it ; 
By heaven, the sacrilegious dog 

Shall fuel be to boil it. 

Fall de roll, §t. 

The wretch that wad a tyrant own, 

And the wretch his true-born brother, 
Who wad set the mob aboon the throne, 

May they be damn'd together ! 
Who will not sing, " God save the King," 

Shall hang as high's the steeple ; 
But while we sing, " God save the King," 

We'll ne'er forget the People. 



30 burns' songs, 

XXX. 

DUNCAN GRAY. 

Duncan Gray came here to woo, 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't, 
On blithe yule night when we were fou, 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 
Maggie coost her head fu' high, 
Look'd asklent and unco skeigh, 
Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh ; 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 

Duncan fleech'd, and Duncan pray'd ; 

Ha, ha, fyc. 
Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig, 

Ha, ha, fyc. 
Duncan sigh'd baith out and in, 
Grat his een baith bleer't and blin', 
Spak o' lowpin o'er a linn ; 

Ha j ha, fyc. 

Time and chance are but a tide, 

Ha, ha, fyc. 
Slighted love is sair to bide, 

Ha, ha, fyc. 
Shall I, like a fool, quoth he, 
For a haughty hizzie die ? 
She may gae to — France for me ! 

Ha, ha, fyc. 




coo.Sl her he-ad fa 1 Mgt 
■111 ,uul -men skeigl 






])KAWN HYK.WKSTALL K.A ■ 

JOHM SBARPE, DUKE ST* 
AUG : 



CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. 3L 

How it comes let doctors tell, 

Ha, ha, Sfc. 
Meg grew sick — as he grew heal, 

Ha, ha, fyc. 
Something in her bosom wrings, 
For relief a sigh she brings ; 
And O, her een, they spak sic things ! 

Ha, ha, Sfc. 

Duncan was a lad o' grace, 

Ha, ha, Sfc. 
Maggie's was a piteous case, 

Ha, ha, Sfc. 
Duncan couldna be her death, 
Swelling pity smoor'd his wrath ; 
Now they're crouse and canty baitb ; 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 



XXXI. 

Tune — Rothiemurchns. 
CHORUS. 

Fairest maid on Devon banks, 
Crystal Devon, winding Devon, 

Wilt thou lay that frown aside, 

And smile as thou were wont to do? 

Full well thou know'st I love thee dear, 
Couldst thou to malice lend an ear ! 
O, did not love exclaim, " Forbear, 
Nor use a faithful lover so?" 

Fairest maid, fyc. 



32 BURNS' songs, 

Then come, thou fairest of the fair, 
Those wonted smiles, O, let me share ; 
And by thy beauteous self I swear, 

No love but thine my heart shall know. 
Fairest maid, fyc. 



XXXII. 

WAR SONG. 



Scene — a field of battle; time of the day — evening; the wounded and 
dying of the victorious army are supposed to join in the following 
Song. 



Farewell, thou fair day, thou green earth, and ye 
skies, 

Now gay with the bright setting sun ; 
Farewell, loves and friendships, ye dear tender ties, 

Our race of existence is run ! 

Thou grim king of terrors, thou life's gloomy foe, 

Go, frighten the coward and slave ; 
Go, teach them to tremble, fell tyrant ! but know, 

No terrors hast thou to the brave ! 

Thou strik'st the dull peasant, he sinks in the dark, 

Nor saves e'en the wreck of a name ; 
Thou strik'st the young hero — a glorious mark ! 

He falls in the blaze of his fame ! 

In the field of proud honour — our swords in our hands, 

Our King and our country to save — 
While victory shines on life's last ebbing sands, 

O ! who would not rest with the brave ! 



CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. 33 

XXXIII. 

Tune — Nancy's to the Greenwood gane. 

Farewell, thou stream that winding flows 
Around Eliza's dwelling ! 

mem'ry ! spare the cruel throes 
Within my bosom swelling : 

Condemn'd to drag a hopeless chain, 

And yet in secret languish, 
To feel a fire in ev'ry vein, 

Nor dare disclose my anguish. 

Love's veriest wretch, unseen, unknown, 

I fain my griefs would cover : 
The bursting sigh, th' unweeting groan, 

Betray the hapless lover. 

1 know thou doom'st me to despair, 

Nor wilt nor canst relieve me ; 
But oh, Eliza, hear one prayer, 
For pity's sake forgive me ! 

The music of thy voice I heard, 

Nor wist while it enslav'd me ; 
I saw thine eyes, yet nothing fear'd, 

Till fears no more had sav'd me : 
Th' unwary sailor thus aghast, 

The wheeling torrent viewing, 
'Mid circling horrors sinks at last 

In overwhelming ruin. 



c3 



34 burns' songs, 

XXXIV. 

M'PHERSONS FAREWELL. 

Farewell, ye dungeons dark and strong, 

The wretch's destinie ! 
M'Pherson' s time will not be long, 

On yonder gallows tree. 

CHORUS. 

Sae rantingly, sae wantonly, 

Sae (tauntingly gaed he ; 
He play'd a spring and dancd it round, 

Below the gallows tree. 

Oh, what is death but parting breath ? — 

On mony a bloody plain 
I've dar'd his face, and in this place 

I scorn him yet again ! 

Sae rantingly, fyc. 

Untie these bands from off my hands, 
And bring to me my sword ; 

And there's no man in all Scotland, 
But I'll brave him at a word. 

Sae rantingly, fyc. 

I've liv'd a life of sturt and strife ; 

I die by treacherie : 
It burns my heart I must depart 

And not avenged be. 

Sae rantingly, fyc. 



CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. 35 

Now farewell, light, thou sunshine bright, 

And all beneath the sky ! 
May coward shame distain his name, 

The wretch that dares not die ! 

Sae rantingly, Sfc. 



XXXV. 



A MOTHERS LAMENT FOR THE DEATH OF 
HER SON. 

Tune — Finlayston House. 

Fate gave the word, the arrow sped, 

And pierc'd my darling's heart; 
And with him all the joys are fled 

Life can to me impart. 
By cruel hands the sapling drops, 

In dust dishonour 'd laid : 
So fell the pride of all my hopes, 

My age's future shade. 

The mother linnet in the brake 

Bewails her ravish *d young ; 
So I, for my lost darling's sake, 

Lament the live-day long. 
Death, oft I've fear'd thy fatal blow, 

Now, fond I bare my breast, 
O, do thou kindly lay me low 

With him I love, at rest ! 



36 BURNS' SONGS, 



XXXVI. 

WHISTLE O'ER THE LAVE O'T. 

First when Maggy was my care, 
Heaven, I thought, was in her air ; 
Now we're married — spier nae mair- 

Whistle o'er the lave o't. — 
Meg was meek, and Meg was mild, 
Bonnie Meg was nature's child — 
Wiser men than me's beguil'd; — 

Whistle o'er the lave o't. 

How we live, my Meg and me, 
How we love and how we 'gree, 
I carena by how few may see ; — 

Whistle o'er the lave o't. 
Wha I wish were maggots' meat, 
Dish'd up in her winding sheet, 
I could write — but Meg maun see't— 

Whistle o'er the lave o't. 



CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. 37 

XXXVII. 

AFTON WATER. 

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes, 
Flow gently, 111 sing thee a song in thy praise ; 
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream, 
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. 

Thou stock-dove whose echo resounds thro' the glen, 
Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den, 
Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear, 
I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair. 

How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring hills, 
Far mark'd with the courses of clear, winding rills ; 
There daily I wander as noon rises high, 
My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye. 

How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below, 
Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow ; 
There oft as mild evening weeps over the lea, 
The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me. 

Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides, 
And winds by the cot where my Mary resides ; 
How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave, 
As gathering sweet flow'rets she stems thy clear wave. 

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes, 
Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays ; 
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream, 
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. 



38 burns' songs, 

XXXVIII. 

TUNE — Let me in this ae nig Jit. 

Forlorn, my love, no comfort near, 
Far, far from thee, I wander here : 
Far, far from thee, the fate severe 
At which I most repine, love. 

CHORUS. 

O wert thou, love, but near me, 
JBut near, near, near me ; 
How hindly thou wouldst cheer me, 
And mingle sighs with mine, love. 

Around me scowls a wintry sky, 
That blasts each bud of hope and joy ; 
And shelter, shade, nor home have I, 
Save in those arms of thine, love^ 
O wert, fyc. 

Cold, alter'd friendship's cruel part, 

To poison fortune's ruthless dart — 

Let me not break thy faithful heart, 

And say that fate is mine, love. 

O wert, Sfc. 

But dreary tho' the moments fleet, 
O let me think we yet shall meet ! 
That only ray of solace sweet 
Can on thy Chloris shine, love. 
O wert, Sfc. 



CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. 39 

XXXIX. 

Tune — Gilderoy. 

From thee, Eliza, I must go, 

And from my native shore ; 
The cruel fates between us throw 

A boundless ocean's roar : 
But boundless oceans, roaring wide, 

Between my love and me, 
They never, never can divide 

My heart and soul from thee. 

Farewell, farewell, Eliza dear, 

The maid that I adore ! 
A boding voice is in mine ear, 

We part to meet no more ! 
But the last throb that leaves my heart, 

While death stands victor by, 
That throb, Eliza, is thy part, 

And thine that latest sigh ! 



XL. 
THEN GUIDWIFE COUNT THE LAWIN. 

Gane is the day, and mirk's the night, 
But well ne'er stray for faute o' light, 
For ale and brandy's stars and moon, 
And bluid-red wine's the risin sun. 

CHORUS. 

Then guidwife count the lawin, the lawin, the lawin, 
Then guidwife count the lawin, and bring a coggie rnair. 



40 burns' songs, 

There's wealth and ease for gentlemen, 
And semple-folk maun fecht and fen'; 
But here we're a' in ae accord, 
For ilka man that's drunk's a lord. 

Then guidwife county #r. 

My coggie is a haly pool, 

That heals the wounds o' care and dool; 

And pleasure is a wanton trout, 

An' ye drink it a' ye'll find him out. 

Then guidwife count, fyc. 



XLI. 
MY BONNIE MARY. 

Go fetch to me a pint o' wine, 

An' fill it in a silver tassie ; 
That I may drink before I go, 

A service to my bonnie lassie. 
The boat rocks at the pier o' Leith ; 

Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the ferry ; 
The ship rides by the Berwick-law, 

And I maun leave my bonnie Mary. 

The trumpets sound, the banners fly, 

The glittering spears are ranked ready ; 
The shouts o' war are heard afar, 

The battle closes thick and bloody ; 
But it's no the roar o' sea or shore 

Wad mak me langer wish to tarry; 
Nor shouts o' war that's heard afar, — 

It's leaving thee, my bonnie Mary. 



CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. 41 



XLII. 

GREEN GROW THE RASHES. 

A FRAGMENT. 
CHORUS. 

Green grow the rashes, Of 
Green grow the rashes, Of 

The sweetest hours that e'er I spent. 
Were spent amang the lasses, Of 

There's nought but care on evry han% 
In ev'ry hour that passes, O ; 

What signifies the life o' man, 
An' 'twerena for the lasses, O. 
Green grow, fyc. 

The warly race may riches chase, 
An' riches still may fly them, O; 

An' tho' at last they catch them fast, 
Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them, O. 
Green grow, Sfc. 

But gie me a caimie hour at e'en, 
My arms about my dearie, O ; 

An' warly cares, and warly men, 
May a' gae tapsalteerie, O ! 

Green grow, Vc. 

For you sae douse, ye sneer at this, 
Ye're nought but senseless asses, O ! 

The wisest man the warl' e'er saw, 
He dearly lov'd the lasses, O. 
Green grow, Sfc. 



42 burns' songs, 

Auld Nature swears, the lovely dears 
Her noblest work she classes, O : 

Her 'prentice han' she tried on man, 
An' then she made the lasses, O. 
Green grow, fyc. 



XLIII. 

TUNE— Robin Adair. 

Had I a cave on some wild distant shore, 
Where the winds howl to the waves' dashing roar; 

There would I weep my woes, 

There seek my lost repose, 

Till grief my eyes should close, 
Ne'er to wake more. 

Falsest of womankind, canst thou declare 
All thy fond plighted vows — fleeting as air? 

To thy new lover hie, 

Laugh o'er thy perjury, 

Then in thy bosom try 
What peace is there I 



XLIV. 

WANDERING WILLIE. 

Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie, 
Here awa, there awa, haud awa hame ; 

Come to my bosom, my ain only dearie, 
Tell me thou bring'st me my Willie the same. 

Winter winds blew loud and cauld at our parting, 
Fears for my Willie brought tears in my ee ; 

Welcome now, simmer, and welcome, my Willie, 
The simmer to nature, my Willie to me. 



CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. 43 

Rest, ye wild storms, in the cave of your slumbers ; 

How your dread howling a lover alarms ! 
Wauken, ye breezes, row gently, ye billows, 

And waft my dear laddie ance mair to my arms. 

But oh, if he's faithless, and mindna his Nannie, 
Flow still between us, thou wide-roaring main ; 

May I never see it, may I never trow it, 

But, dying, believe that my Willie's my ain. 



XLV. 

BANKS OF CREE. 

Here is the glen, and here the bower, 
All underneath the birchen shade ; 

The village-bell has told the hour, 
O what can stay my lovely maid ? 

Tis not Maria's whispering call ! 

'Tis but the balmy-breathing gale, 
Mixt with some warbler's dying fall, 

The dewy star of eve to hail. 

It is Maria's voice I hear ! 

So calls the woodlark in the grove 
His little faithful mate to cheer, 

At once 'tis music — and 'tis love. 

And art thou come ? and art thou true '? 

O welcome dear to love and me ! 
And let us all our vows renew, 

Along the flowery banks of Cree, 



44 burns' songs, 



XLVI. 

Here's a bottle and an honest friend, 

What wad ye wish for mair, man ? 
Wha kens, before his life may end, 

What his share may be of care, man ? 
Then catch the moments as they fly, 

And use them as ye ought, man : 
Believe me, happiness is shy, 

And comes not aye when sought, man. 



XLVII. 

Tune — Here's a health to them that's awa, hiney. 

CHORUS. 

Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear, 

Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear ; 

Thou art sweet as the smile when fond lovers meet, 

And soft as their parting tear — Jessy ! 

Alt ho' thou maun never be mine, 

Altho' even hope is denied ; 
'Tis sweeter for thee despairing, 

Than aught in the world beside — Jessy ! 
Here's a health, Sfc. 

I mourn thro' the gay, gaudy day, 
As, hopeless, I muse on thy charms ; 

But welcome the dream o' sweet slumber, 
For then I am lockt in thy arms — Jessy ! 
Here's a health, fyc. 



CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. 45 

I guess by the dear angel smile, 

I guess by the love-rolling ee ; 
But why urge the tender confession 

'Gainst fortune's fell cruel decree — Jessy ! 
Here's a health, fyc. 



XLVIII. 

PATRIOTIC— unfinished. 

Here's a health to them that's awa, 

Here's a health to them that's awa ; 

And wha winna wish guid luck to our cause, 

May never guid luck be their fa' ! 

It's guid to be merry and wise, 

It's guid to be honest and true, 

It's guid to support Caledonia's cause, 

And bide by the buff and the blue. 

Here's a health to them that's awa, 

Here's a health to them that's awa ; 

Here's a health to Charlie, the chief o' the clan, 

Altho' that his band be sma'. 

May liberty meet wi' success ! 

May prudence protect her frae evil ! 

May tyrants and tyranny tine in the mist, 

And wander their way to the devil ! 

Here's a health to them that's awa, 

Here's a health to them that's awa, 

Here's a health to Tammie, the Norland laddie. 

That lives at the lu°- o' the law ! 



4G BURNS SONGS, 

Here's freedom to him that wad read, 

Here's freedom to him that wad write ! 

There's nane ever fear'd that the truth should be heard, 

But they wham the truth wad indite. 

Here's a health to them that's awa, 

Here's a health to them that's awa, 

Here's Chieftain M'Leod, a Chieftain worth gowd, 

Tho' bred amang mountains o' snaw ! 



XLIX. 

FRAGMENT. 

Her flowing locks, the raven's wing, 
Adown her neck and bosom hing ; 
How sweet unto that breast to cling, 
And round that neck entwine her ! 

Her lips are roses wet wi' dew ! 
O, what a feast, her bonnie mou ! 
Her cheeks a mair celestial hue ! 
A crimson still diviner ! 



CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. 47 



ON THE SEAS AND FAR AWAY. 

TUNE — O'er the hills, and far away. 

How can my poor heart be glad, 
When absent from my sailor lad ? 
How can I the thought forego, 
He's on the seas to meet the foe ? 
Let me wander, let me rove, 
Still my heart is with my love ; 
Nightly dreams and thoughts by day 
Are with him that's far away. 

CHORUS. 

On the seas and far away, 
On stormy seas and far away ; 
Nightly dreams and thoughts by day 
Are aye with him that's far away. 

When in summer's noon I faint, 
As weary flocks around me pant, 
Haply in this scorching sun 
My sailor's thund'ring at his gun : 
Bullets, spare my only joy ! 
Bullets, spare my darling boy ! 
Fate, do with me what you may, 
Spare but him that's far away ! 
On the seas, fyc. 



48 burns' songs, 

At the starless midnight hour, 

When winter rules with boundless power ; 

As the storms the forest tear, 

And thunders rend the howling air, 

Listening to the doubling roar, 

Surging on the rocky shore, 

All I can — I weep and pray, 

For his weal that's far away. 

On the seas, 8fc. 

Peace, thy olive wand extend, 
And bid wild war his ravage end, 
Man with brother man to meet, 
And as a brother kindly greet : 
Then may heaven with prosp'rous gales 
Fill my sailor's welcome sails, 
To my arms their charge convey, 
My dear lad that's far away. 

On the seas, fyc. 



LI. 

ALTERED FROM AN OLD ENGLISH SONG. 
TUNE — John Anderson my jo. 

How cruel are the parents 

Who riches only prize, 
And to the wealthy booby 

Poor woman sacrifice. 
Meanwhile the hapless daughter 

Has but a choice of strife ; 
To shun a tyrant father's hate, 

Become a wretched wife. 



CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. 49 

The ravening hawk pursuing, 

The trembling dove thus flies, 
To shun impelling ruin 

Awhile her pinions tries ; 
Till of escape despairing, 

No shelter or retreat, 
She trusts the ruthless falconer, 

And drops beneath his feet. 



LII. 

Tone— Cauld Kail in Aberdeen. 

How lang and dreary is the night, 
When I am frae my dearie ; 

I restless lie frae e'en to morn, 
Tho' I were ne'er sae weary. 

CHORUS. 

For oh, her lanehj nights are lung ; 

And oh, her dreams are eerie ; 
And oh, her widow' d heart is sair, 

That's absent frae her dearie. 

When I think on the lightsome days 

I spent wi' thee, my dearie ; 
And now what seas between us roar, 
How can I be but eerie ? 

For oh, Sec. 

D 



50 BURNS* SONGS, 

How slow ye move, ye heavy hours ; 

The joyless day how dreary ! 
It wasna sae ye glinted by, 

When I was wi' my dearie. 
For oh, Sfc. 



LIII. 

Tune — Jo Janet. 

Husband, husband, cease your strife, 

Nor longer idly rave, sir ; 
Tho' I am your wedded wife, 

Yet I am not your slave, sir. 

" One of two must still obey, 

Nancy, Nancy ; 
Is it man or woman, say, 

My spouse, Nancy?'' 

If 'tis still the lordly word, 

Service and obedience ; 
I'll desert my sov'reign lord, 

And so good-bye allegiance ! 

" Sad will t be, so bereft, 

Nancy, Nancy! 
Yet I'll try to make a shift, 

My spouse, Nancy/ 7 

My poor heart then break it must, 

My last hour I'm near it, 
When you lay me in the dust, 

Think, think how you will bear it. 



CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. 51 

" I will hope and trust in Heaven, 

Nancy, Nancy; 
Strength to bear it will be given, 

My spouse, Nancy." 

Well, Sir, from the silent dead 

Still I'll try to daunt you ; 
Ever round your midnight bed 

Horrid sprites shall haunt you. 

" I'll wed another, like my dear 

Nancy, Nancy; 
Then all hell will fly for fear, 

My spouse, Nancy." 



LIV. 
I DO CONFESS THOU ART SAE FAIR. 

I DO confess thou art sae fair, 

I wad been o'er the lugs in luve, 
Had I not found the slightest prayer 

That lips could speak, thy heart could muve. 

I do confess thee sweet, but find 
Thou art sae thriftless o' thy sweets, 

Thy favours are the silly wind 
That kisses ilka thing it meets. 

See yonder rose-bud rich in dew, 

Amang its native briers sae coy, 
How soon it tines its scent and hue 

When pu'd and worn a common toy ! 

d2 



52 BURNS' SONGS, 

Sic fate ere lang shall thee betide, 
Tho' thou may gaily bloom awhile ; 

Yet soon thou shalt be thrown aside, 
Like ony common weed and vile. 



LV. 



I DREAM'D I LAY WHERE FLOWERS WERE 
SPRINGING. 

I dream'd I lay where flowers were springing, 

Gaily in the sunny beam ; 
Listening to the wild birds singing, 

By a falling, crystal stream : 
Straight the sky grew black and daring ; 

Thro* the woods the whirlwinds rave ; 
Trees with aged arms were warring, 

O'er the swelling, drumlie wave. 

Such was my life's deceitful morning, 

Such the pleasures I enjoy'd ; 
But lang or noon, loud tempests storming 

A' my flowery bliss destroy' d. 
Tho' fickle fortune has deceived me, 

She promised fair, and perform'd but ill ; , 
Of mony a joy and hope bereav'd me, 

I bear a heart shall support me still. 



CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. 5:3 

LVI. 
THE BLUE EYED LASSIE. 

Tune — The Blathrie o't. 

I gaed a waefu' gate yestreen, 

A gate, I fear, I'll dearly rue ; 
I gat my death frae twa sweet een, 

Twa lovely een o' bonnie blue. 
'Twas not her golden ringlets bright, 

Her lips like roses wat wi' dew, 
Her heaving bosom lily-white ; — 

It was her een sae bonnie blue. 

She talk'd, she snnTd, my heart she wyl'd, 

She charm'd my soul I wistna how ; 
And aye the stound, the deadly wound, 

Cam frae her een sae bonnie blue. 
But spare to speak, and spare to speed ; 

She'll aiblins listen to my vow : 
Should she refuse, I'll lay my dead 

To her twa een sae bonnie blue. 



LVII. 
NAEBODY. 

I hae a wife o' my ain, 
I'll partake wi' naebody ; 

I'll tak cuckold frae nane, 
I'll gic cuckold to naebody* 



54 burns' songs, 

I hae a penny to spend, 
There — thanks to naebody ; 

I hae naething to lend, 
I'll borrow frae naebody. 

I am naebody's lord, 
I'll be slave to naebody ; 

I hae a guid braid sword, 
111 tak dunts frae naebody. 

I'll be merry and free, 
I'll be sad for naebody ; 

If naebody care for me, 
I'll care for naebody. 



LVIII. 
I'LL AYE CA' IN BY YON TOWN. 

I'll aye ca' in by yon town, 

And by yon garden green again; 

I'll ay ca' in by yon town, 

And see my bonnie Jean again. 

There's nane sail ken, there's nane sail guess, 
What brings me back the gate again, 

But she, my fairest faithfu' lass, 
And stownlins we sail meet again. 

She'll wander by the aiken tree, 
When try s tin- time draws near again ; 

And when her lovely form I see, 
O haith, she's doubly dear again ! 



CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. DO 

LIX. 

Tune — The Braes o' Balquhidder. 

Til kiss thee yet, yet, 

An' Til kiss tkee oer again, 
An Til kiss thee yet, yet, 

My Bonnie Peggy Alison! 

Ilk care and fear, when thou art near, 

I ever mair defy them, O ; 
Young kings upon their hansel throne 

Are no sae blest as I am, O ! 

Til kiss thee, fyc. 

When in my arms, wi' a' thy charms, 

I clasp my countless treasure, O ; 
I seek nae mair o' Heaven to share, 

Than sic a moment's pleasure, O ! 
Til kiss thee, fyc. 

And by thy een, sae bonnie blue, 

I swear I'm thine for ever, O ; — 
And on thy lips I seal my vow, 

And break it shall I never, O ! 
Til kiss thee, tyc. 



burns' songs, 

LX. 

COUNTRY LASSIE. 

Tune — John, come kiss me now. 

In simmer when the hay was mawn, 

And corn way'd green in ilka field, 
While claver blooms white o'er the lea, 

And roses blaw in ilka bield ; 
Blithe Bessie in the milking shiel, 

Says, I'll be wed, come o't what will ; 
Ont spak a dame in wrinkled eild, 

O' guid advisement comes nae ill. 

It's ye hae wooers mony ane, 

And, lassie, ye're but young ye ken ; 
Then wait a wee, and cannie wale 

A routhie butt, a routhie ben : 
There's Johnie o' the Buskie-glen, 

Fu' is his barn, fu' is his byre ; 
Tak this frae me, my bonnie hen, 

It's plenty beets the luver's fire. 

For Johnie o* the Buskie-glen 

I dinna care a single flie ; 
He lo's sae weel his craps and kye, 

He has nae luve to spare for me : 
But blithe 's the blink o' Robie's ee, 

And weel I wat he lo'es me dear : 
Ae blink o* him I wadna gie 

For Buskie-glen and a' his gear. 



CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. 57 

O thoughtless lassie, life's a faught ; 

The canniest gate, the strife is sair; 
But aye fit' han't is fechtin best, 

An hungry care's an unco care : 
But some will spend, and some will spare, 

An* wilfu* folk maun hae their will ; 
Syne as ye brew, my maiden fair, 

Keep mind that ye maun drink the yill. 

O, gear will buy me rigs o' land, 

And gear will buy me sheep and kye ; 
But the tender heart o' leesome luve 

The gowd and siller canna buy : 
We may be poor — Robie and I, 

Light is the burden luve lays on ; 
Content and luve brings peace and joy, 

What mair hae queens upon a throne ? 



LXI. 

FOR A' THAT AND A' THAT. 

Is there, for honest poverty 

That hangs his head, and a' that ? 
The coward-slave, we pass him by, 

We dare be poor for a' that ! 
For a' that, and a' that, 

Our toils obscure, and a* that, 
The rank is but the guinea's stamp, 

The man's the gowd for a' that. 

D3 



58 burns' songs, 

What tho' on namely fare we dine, 

Wear hodden-grey, and a' that ; 
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine, 

A man's a man for a' that ; 
For a' that, and a' that, 

Their tinsel show, and a' that : 
The honest man, tho' e'er sae poor, 

Is king o' men for a' that. 

Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord, 

Wha struts, and stares, and a* that ; 
Tho* hundreds worship at his word, 

He's but a coof for a' that : 
For a' that, and a' that, 

His riband, star, and a' that, 
The man of independent mind, 

He looks and laughs at a' that. 

A prince can mak a belted knight, 

A marquis, duke, and a' that ; 
But an honest man's aboon his might, 

Guid faith he mauna fa' that ! 
For a' that, and a' that, 

Their dignities, and a' that, 
The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth, 

Are higher ranks than a' that. 

Then let us pray that come it may, 

As come it will for a' that, 
That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth, 

May bear the gree, and a' that. 
For a' that, and a' that, 

It's coming yet, for a' that, 
That man to man, the warld o'er, 

Shall brothers be for a' that. 



CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. 59 

LXII. 

ALTERED FROM AN OLD ENGLISH SONG 

It was the charming month of May, 
When all the flow'rs were fresh and gay, 
One morning, by the break of day, 
The youthful, charming Chloe; 

From peaceful slumber she arose, 
Girt on her mantle and her hose, 
And o'er the flowery mead she goes, 
The youthful, charming Chloe. 

CHORUS. 

Lovely was she by the dawn, 

Youthful Chloe, charming Chloe, 
Tripping o'er the pearly lawn, 

The youthful, charming Chloe. 

The feather'd people you might see 
Perch'd all around on every tree, 
In notes of sweetest melody 
They hail the charming Chloe ; 

'Till, painting gay the eastern skies, 
The glorious sun began to rise, 
Out-rivalFd by the radiant eyes 
Of youthful, charming Chloe. 

Lovely was she, fyc. 



60 BURNS SONGS. 

LXIII. 

Tune — Corn rigs are bonnie. 

It was upon a Lammas night, 

When corn rigs are bonnie, 
Beneath the moon's unclouded light, 

I held awa to Annie : 
The time flew by wi' tentless heed, 

Till, 'tween the late and early, 
Wi' sma' persuasion she agreed, 

To see me thro* the barley. 

The sky was blue, the wind was still, 

The moon was shining clearly ; 
I set her down, wi' right good will, 

Amang the rigs o' barley : 
I ken'd her heart was a' my ain ; 

I loy'd her most sincerely ; 
I kiss'd her owre and owre again 

Amang the rigs o' barley. 

I lock'd her in my fond embrace ; 

Her heart was beating rarely ; 
My blessings on that happy place, 

Amang the rigs o' barley ! 
But by the moon and stars so bright, 

That shone that hour so clearly ! 
She aye shall bliss that happy night 

Amang the rigs o' barley. 



CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. 01 

I hae been blithe wi' comrades dear ; 

I hae been merry drinkin ; 
I hae been joyfu' gathering gear; 

I hae been happy thinkin : 
But a' the pleasures e'er I saw, 

TW three times doubled fairly, 
That happy night was worth them a', 

Amang the rigs o' barley. 

CHORUS. 

O corn rigs, an* barley rigs, 

Ari corn rigs are bonnie : 
I'll ne'er forget that happy night, 

Amang the rigs wi' Annie. 



LXIV. 



Jockey's ta'en the parting kiss, 
O'er the mountains he is gane ; 

And with him is a' my bliss, 
Nought but griefs with me remain. 

Spare my luve, ye winds that blaw, 
Plashy sleets and beating rain ! 

Spare my luve, thou feathery snaw, 
Drifting o'er the frozen plain ! 

When the shades of evening creep 
O'er the day's fair, gladsome ee, 

Sound and safely may he sleep, 
Sweetly blithe his waukening be ! 



62 burns' songs, 

He will think on- her he loves, 
Fondly he'll repeat her name ; 

For where'er he distant roves, 
Jockey's heart is still at name. 



LXV. 

JOHN ANDERSON MY JO. 

John Anderson my jo, John, 

When we were first acquent, 
Your locks were like the raven, 

Your bonnie brow was brent ; 
But now your brow is beld, John, 

Your locks are like the snaw ; 
But blessings on your frosty pow, 

John Anderson my jo. 

John Anderson my jo, John, 

We clamb the hill thegither; 
And mony a canty day, John, 

We've had wi' ane anither : 
Now we maun totter down, John, 

But hand in hand we'll go, 
And sleep thegither at the foot, 

John Anderson my jo. 



; 




But now your brow is beld, John , 

Your locks ar 

Song-s 



• 



CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. 03 

LXVI. 
LASSIE WI' THE LINT-WHITE LOCKS. 

TUNE — Rothiemurchus's Rant. 
CHORUS. 

Lassie wi the lint-white locks, 

Bonnie lassie, artless lassie, 
Wilt thou wi' me tent the flocks, 

Wilt thou be my dearie O? 

Now nature deeds the flowery lea, 
And a' is young and sweet like thee ; 
O wilt thou share its joys wi' me, 
And say thou'lt be my dearie O ? 
Lassie wi, fyc. 

And when the welcome simmer-shower 
Has cheer'd ilk drooping little flower, 
We'll to the breathing woodbine bower 
At sultry noon, my dearie O. 
Lassie wi\ fyc. 

When Cynthia lights, wi* silver ray, 
The weary shearer's hameward way, 
Thro' yellow waving fields we'll stray, 
And talk o' love, my dearie O. 
Lassie wi\ fyc. 

And when the howling wintry blast 
Disturbs my lassie's midnight rest; 
Enclasped to my faithfu' breast, 
I'll comfort thee, my dearie O. 

Lassie wi, <5'c. 



64 burns' songs, 

LXVII. 

SCOTTISH BALLAD. 

Tune — The Lothian Lassie, 

Last May, a braw wooer cam down the lang glen 
And sair wi' his love he did deave me : 

I said there was naething I hated like men, 
The deuce gae wi'm to believe me, believe me, 
The deuce gae wi'm to believe me. 

He spak o' the darts in my bonnie black een, 
And vow'd for my love he was dying ; 

I said he might die when he liked for Jean : 
The Lord forgie me for lying, for lying, 
The Lord forgie me for lying ! 

A weel-stocked mailen, himsel for the laird, 
And marriage aff-hand, were his proffers ; 

I never loot on that I kenn'd it, or car'd, 

But thought I might hae waur offers, waur offers, 
But thought I might hae waur offers. 

But what wad ye think? in a fortnight or less, 
The deil tak his taste to gae near her ! 

He up the lang loan to my black cousin Bess, 

Guess ye how, the jad! I could bear her, could 

bear her, 
Guess ye how, the jad ! I could bear her. 

But a' the niest week as I fretted wi' care, 

I gaed to the tryste o' Dalgarnock, 
And wha but my fine fickle lover was there, 

I glowr'd as I'd seen a warlock, a warlock, 

I glowr'd as I'd seen a warlock. 



CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. 65 

But owre my left shouther I gae him a blink, 
Least neebors might say I was saucy ; 

My wooer he caper'd as he'd been in drink, 
And vow'd I was his dear lassie, dear lassie, 
And vow'd I was his dear lassie. 

I spier'd for my cousin fu' couthy and sweet, 

Gin she had recover'd her hearin, 
And how her new shoon fit her auld shachl't feet — 

But, heavens ! how he fell a swearin, a swearin, 

But, heavens ! how he fell a swearin. 

He begged, for Gudesake ! I wad be his wife, 

Or else I wad kill him wi' sorrow : 
So e'en to preserve the poor body in life, 

I think I maun wed him to-morrow, to-morrow, 

I think I maun wed him to-morrow. 



LXVIII. 

Tune— Duncan Gray. 

Let not woman e'er complain 

Of inconstancy in love ; 
Let not woman e'er complain, 

Fickle man is apt to rove : 

Look abroad through Nature's range, 
Nature's mighty law is change ; 
Ladies, would it not be strange, 
Man should then a monster prove ? 



66 burns' songs, 

Mark the winds, and mark the skies ; 

Ocean's ebb, and ocean's flow : 
Sun and moon but set to rise, 

Round and round the seasons go. 

Why then ask of silly man, 
To oppose great Nature's plan? 
We'll be constant while we can— 
You can be no more, you know. 



LXIX. 

ON CHLORIS BEING ILL. 
Tune — Aye Wakin 0. 

CHORUS. 

Long, long the night, 
Heavy comes the morrow, 

While my souVs delight 
Is on her bed of sorrow. 

Can I cease to care? 

Can I cease to languish, 
While my darling fair 

Is on the couch of anguish ? 
Long, Sfc. 

Every hope is fled, 

Every fear is terror ; 
Slumber e'en I dread, 

Every dream is horror. 

Long, #*c. 



CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. (Jl 

Hear me, Pow rs divine ! 

Oh, in pity hear me ! 
Take aught else of mine, 

But my Chloris spare me ! 
Long, fyc. 



LXX. 

THE YOUNG HIGHLAND ROVER. 

Tune — Morag. 

Loud blaw the frosty breezes, 

The snaws the mountains cover ; 
Like winter on me seizes, 

Since my young Highland Rover 

Far wanders nations over. 
Where'er he go, where'er he stray, 

May Heaven be his warden : 
Return him safe to fair Strathspey, 

And bonnie Castle-Gordon ! 

The trees now naked groaning, 
Shall soon wi* leaves be hinging, 

The birdies dowie moaning, 
Shall a' be blithly singing, 
And every flower be springing. 

Sae I'll rejoice the lee-lang day, 
When by his mighty warden 

My youth's returned to fair Strathspey, 
And bonnie Castle-Gordon. 



68 BURNS' SONGS, 

LXXI. 

LOUIS, WHAT RECK I BY THEE? 

TUNE — My mother's aye glowring o'er me, 

Louis, what reck I by thee, 
Or Geordie on his ocean ? 

Dyvor, beggar louns to me, 
I reign in Jeanie's bosom. 

Let her crown my love her law, 
And in her breast enthrone me : 

Kings and nations, swith awa ! 
Reif randies I disown ye ! 



LXXII. 

TUNE — JDeiltakthe Wars. 

Mark yonder pomp of costly fashion, 

Round the wealthy, titled bride : 
But when compar'd with real passion, 
Poor is all that princely pride. 
What are the showy treasures ? 
What are the noisy pleasures ? 

The gay, gaudy glare of vanity and art : 
The polish'd jewel's blaze 
May draw the wond'ring gaze, 
And courtly grandeur bright 
The fancy may delight, 

But never, never can come near the heart. 



CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. 69 

But did you see my dearest Chloris, 

In simplicity's array; 
Lovely as yonder sweet opening flower is, 

Shrinking from the gaze of day. 

O then, the heart alarming, 

And all resistless charming, 
In Love's delightful fetters she chains the willing soul ! 

Ambition would disown 

The world's imperial crown ; 

Even Avarice would deny 

His worshipp'd deity, 
And feel thro' every vein Love's raptures roll. 



LXXIII. 

MUSING ON THE ROARING OCEAN. 

Tune — Druimion dubh. 

Musing on the roaring ocean 
Which divides my love and me ; 

Wearying Heaven in warm devotion, 
For his weal where'er he be. 

Hope and fear's alternate billow 
Yielding late to nature's law ; 

Whispering spirits round my pillow 
Talk of him that's far awa. 

Ye whom sorrow never wounded, 

Ye who never shed a tear, 
Care-untroubled, joy-surrounded, 

Gaudy day to you is dear. 



70 burns' songs, 

Gentle night, do thou befriend me ; 

Downy sleep, the curtain draw; 
Spirits kind, again attend me, 

Talk of him that's far awa ! 



LXXIV. 

Tune — My Lodging is on the cold Ground. 

My Chloris, mark how green the groves, 
The primrose banks how fair : 

The balmy gales awake the flowers, 
And wave thy flaxen hair. 

The lav'rock shuns the palace gay, 

And o'er the cottage sings : 
For nature smiles as sweet, I ween, 

To shepherds as to kings. 

Let minstrels sweep the skilfu' string 

In lordly lighted ha' : 
The shepherd stops his simple reed, 

Blithe, in the birken shaw. 

The princely revel may survey 

Our rustic dance wi' scorn ; 
But are their hearts as light as ours 

Beneath the milk-white thorn ? 

The shepherd, in the flowery glen, 
In shepherd's phrase will woo : 

The courtier tells a finer tale, 
But is his heart as true ? 



CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. 71 

These wild-wood flowers I've pu'd, to deck 

That spotless breast o' thine ! 
The courtiers' gems may witness love — 

But 'tisna love like mine. 



LXXV. 

Tune— The Weaver and his Shuttle, O. 

My Father was a Farmer upon the Carrick border, O 
And carefully he bred me in decency and order, O 
He bade me act a manly part, though I had ne'er a 

farthing, O 
For without an honest manly heart, no man was worth 

regarding, O. 

Then out into the world my course I did determine, O 

Tho' to be rich was not my wish, yet to be great was 
charming, O 

My talents they were not the worst ; nor yet my edu- 
cation: O 

Resolv'd was I at least to try to mend my situation, O. 

In many a way, and vain essay, I courted fortune's 

favour; O 
Some cause unseen still stept between, to frustrate 

each endeavour ; O 
Sometimes by foes I was o'erpower'd ; sometimes by 

friends forsaken ; O 
And when my hope was at the top, I still was worst 

mistaken, O. 



72 burns' songs, 

Then sore harass'd, and tir'd at last, with fortune's 

vain delusion ; O 
I dropt my schemes, like idle dreams, and came to 

this conclusion ; O 
The past was bad, and the future hid ; its good or ill 

untried; O 
But the present hour was in my powY, and so I would 

enjoy it, O. 

No help, nor hope, nor view had I ; nor person to be- 
friend me ; O 

So I must toil, and sweat and broil, and labour to 
sustain me, O , 

To plough and sow, to reap and mow, my father bred 
me early; O 

For one, he said, to labour bred, was a match for for- 
tune fairly, O. 

Thus all obscure, unknown, and poor, thro' life I'm 
doom'd to wander, O 

Till down my weary bones I lay in everlasting slum- 
ber; O 

No view nor care, but shun whate'er might breed me 
pain or sorrow : O 

I live to-day, as well's I may, regardless of to-mor- 
row, O. 

But cheerful still, I am as well as a monarch in a 

palace, O 
Tho' fortune's frown still hunts me down, with all her 

wonted malice ; O 
I make indeed, my daily bread, but ne'er can make it 

farther; O 
But as daily bread is all I need, I do not much regard 

her, O. 



CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. 73 

When sometimes by my labour I earn a little money, O 
Some unforeseen misfortune comes generally upon 

me; O 
Mischance, mistake, or by neglect, or my good-natur'd 

folly; O 
But come what will, I've sworn it still, I'll ne'er be 

melancholy, O. 

All you who follow wealth and power with unremitting- 
ardour, O 

The more in this you look for bliss, you leave your 
view the farther ; O 

Had you the wealth Potosi boasts, or nations to adore 
you, O 

A cheerful honest-hearted clown I will prefer before 
you, O. 



LXXVL 

TAM GLEN. 

Tune — The Mucking o' Geor die's Byre. 

My heart is a breaking, dear Tittie, 
Some counsel unto me come len', 

To anger them a' is a pity ; 

But what will I do wi' Tarn Glen? 

I'm thinking, wi' sic a braw fallow, 
In poortith I might mak a fen* ; 

What care I in riches to wallow, 
If I maunna marry Tarn Glen ? 

E 



74 burns' songs, 

There's Lowrie the laird o' Drumeller, 

" Guid-day to you, brute !" he comes ben : 

He brags and he blaws o' his siller, 

But when will he dance like Tarn Glen ? 

My minnie does constantly deave me, 
And bids me beware o' young men ; 

They natter, she says, to deceive me ; 
But wha can think sae o' Tarn Glen? 

My daddie says, gin I'll forsake him, 
He'll gie me guid hunder marks ten : 

But, if it's ordain'd I maun take him, 
O wha will I get but Tarn Glen? 

Yestreen at the Valentines' dealing, 
My heart to my mou gied a sten ; 

For thrice I drew ane without failing, 
And thrice it was written, Tarn Glen. 

The last Halloween I was waukin 
My droukit s ark-sleeve, as ye ken ; 

His likeness cam up the house staukin — 
And the very grey breeks o' Tarn Glen ! 

Come counsel, dear Tittie, don't tarry ; 

I'll gie you my bonnie black hen, 
Gif ye will advise me to marry 

The lad I lo'e dearly, Tarn Glen. 



CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. 75 

LXXVII. 

FOR THE SAKE OF SOMEBODY. 

TUNE — The Highland Watch's Farewell. 

My heart is sair, I darena tell, 

My heart is sair for somebody ; 
I could wake a winter night 
For the sake o' somebody. 
Oh-hon ! for somebody ! 
Oh-hey ! for somebody ! 
I could range the world around, 
For the sake o' somebody. 

Ye powers that smile on virtuous love, 

O, sweetly smile on somebody ! 
Frae ilka danger keep him free, 
And send me safe my somebody. 
Oh-hon ! for somebody ! 
Oh-hey ! for somebody ! 
I wad do — what wad I not ? 
For the sake o' somebody ! 



LXXVIII. 

MY HEART'S IN THE HIGHLANDS. 

The first half stanza of this Song is old ; the rest is mine. B. 

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here ; 
My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer ; 
Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe, 
My heart's in the Highland's wherever I go. 

1-2 



76 burns' songs, 

Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North, 
The birth-place of valour, the country of worth ; 
Wherever I wander, wherever I rove, 
The hills of the Highlands for ever I love. 

Farewell to the mountains high cover'd with snow ; 
Farewell to the straths and green valleys below ; 
Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods ; 
Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods. 
My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here, 
My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer : 
Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe, 
My heart's in the Highlands, wherever I go. 



LXXIX. 

My Peggy's face, my Peggy's form, 
The frost of hermit age might warm ; 
My Peggy's worth, my Peggy's mind, 
Might charm the first of human kind. 
T love my Peggy's angel air, 
Her face so truly heavenly fair, 
Her native grace so void of art ; 
But I adore my Peggy's heart. 

The lily's hue, the rose's dye, 
The kindling lustre of an eye ; 
Who but owns their magic sway, 
Who but knows they all decay ! 
The tender thrill, the pitying tear, 
The generous purpose, nobly dear, 
The gentle look that rage disarms, 
These are all immortal charms. 



CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. 77 

LXXX. 

TUNE — The deuks dang o'er my daddy* 

Nae gentle dames, the/ e'er sae fair, 
Shall ever be my muse's care ; 
Their titles a' are empty show ; 
Gie me my highland lassie, O. 

CHORUS. 

Within the glen sae bushy, O, 
Aboon the plain sae rushy, 0, 
I set me down wi' right good will, 
To sing my highland lassie, 0> 

Oh, were yon hills and valleys mine, 
Yon palace and yon gardens fine ! 
The world then the love should know 
I bear my highland lassie, O. 

Within the glen, fyc. 

But fickle fortune frowns on me, 
And I maun cross the raging sea ; 
But while my crimson currents flow 
111 love my highland lassie, O. 

Within the glen, §■& 

Altho' thro' foreign climes I range, 
I know her heart will never change, 
For her bosom burns with honour's glow, 
My faithful highland lassie, O. 

Within the glen, §'c. 



BURNS SONGS, 

For her I'll dare the billow's roar, 
For her I'll dare the distant shore, 
That Indian wealth may lustre throw 
Around my highland lassie, O. 

Within the glen, $*c. 

She has my heart, she has my hand, 
By sacred truth and honour's band I 
Till the mortal stroke shall lay me low, 
I'm thine, my highland lassie, O. 

Fareweel the glen sae bushy, O ! 
Fareweel the plain sae rushy, O ! 
To other lands I now must go, 
To sing my highland lassie, O ! 



LXXXI. 

Tune — Prepare, my dear brethren, to the tavern let's fly. 

No churchman am I for to rail and to write, 
No statesman nor soldier to plot or to fight, 
No sly man of business contriving a snare, 
For a big-bellied bottle's the whole of my care. 

The peer I don't envy, I give him his bow ; 

I scorn not the peasant, tho' ever so low ; 

But a club of good fellows, like those that are here, 

And a bottle like this, are my glory and care. 

Here passes the squire on his brother — his horse ; 
There centum per centum, the cit with his purse ; 
But see you the Crown how it waves in the air, 
There a big-bellied bottle still eases my care. 



CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. 1U 

The wife of my bosom, alas ! she did die ; 
For sweet consolation to church I did fly ; 
I found that old Solomon proved it fair, 
That the big-bellied bottle's a cure for all care. 

I once was persuaded a venture to make ; 
A letter inform'd me that all was to wreck ; — 
But the pursy old landlord just waddled up stairs, 
With a glorious bottle that ended my cares. 

4 Life's cares they are comforts V — a maxim laid down 
By the bard, what d'ye call him, that wore the black 

gown ; 
And faith I agree with th' old prig to a hair, 
For a big-bellied bottle's a heav'n of care. 

A Stanza added in a Mason Lodge. 

Then fill up a bumper, and make it o'erflow, 
And honours masonic prepare for to throw ; 
May every true brother of the compass and square 
Have a big-bellied bottle when harass 'd with care. 



LXXXIL 

Now bank an' brae are claith'd in green 

An' scatter'd cowslips sweetly spring, 
By Girvan's fairy-haunted stream 

The birdies flit on wanton wing. 
To Cassillis' banks when e'ening fa's, 

There wi' my Mary let me flee ; 
There catch her ilka glance o* love, 

The bonnie blink o' Mary's ee ! 

1 Young's Night Thoughts, 



80 BURNS 1 SONGS, 

The chield wha boasts o' warld's wealth, 

Is aften laird o' meikle care ; 
But Mary, she is a' my ain, 

Ah, fortune canna gie me mair ! 
Then let me range by Cassillis' banks, 

Wi' her the lassie dear to me; 
And catch her ilka glance o' love, 

The bonnie blink o' Mary's ee ! 



LXXXIII. 

MY NANNIE'S AW A. 

TUNE — There 11 never be Peace. 

Now in her green mantle blithe nature arrays, 
And listens the lambkins that bleat o'er the braes, 
While birds warble welcome in ilka green shaw ; 
But to me it's delightless — my Nannie's awa. 

The snaw-drap and primrose our woodlands adorn, 
And violets bathe in the weet o y the morn ; 
They pain my sad bosom, sae sweetly they blaw, 
They mind me o' Nannie — my Nannie's awa. 

Thou lav'rock that springs frae the dews of the lawn, 
The shepherd to warn o y the grey-breaking dawn, 
And thou, mellow mavis, that hails the night-fa', 
Give over for pity — my Nannie's awa. 

Come, autumn, sae pensive, in yellow and grey, 
And sooth me wi' tidings o' nature's decay ; 
The dark, dreary winter, and wild-driving snaw, 
Alane can delight me — now Nannie's awa. 



CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. 81 

LXXXIV. 

DAINTY DAVIE. 

Now rosy May comes in wi' flowers, 
To deck her gay, green spreading bowers ; 
And now comes in my happy hours, 
To wander wi' my Davie. 

CHORUS. 

Meet me on the warlock hnowe, 

Dainty Davie, dainty Davie, 
There I'll spend the day wi' you, 

My ain dear dainty Davie. 

The crystal waters round us fa', 
The merry birds are lovers a', 
The scented breezes round us blaw, 
A-wandering wi' my Davie. 

Meet me, fyc. 

When purple morning starts the hare, 
To steal upon her early fare, 
Then thro* the dews I will repair, 
To meet my faithfu' Davie. 

Meet me, Sfc. 

When day, expiring in the west, 
The curtain draws o' nature's rest, 
I flee to his arms I lo'e best, 
And that's my ain dear Davie. 
Meet me % be. 

E 3 



82 burns' songs, 

LXXXV. 

TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 
TUNE — The hopeless Lover, 

Now spring has clad the groves in green, 

And strew'd the lea wi' flowers ; 
The furrow 'd, waving corn is seen 

Rejoice in fostering showers; 
While ilka thing in nature join 

Their sorrows to forego, 
O why thus all alone are mine 

The weary steps of woe ! 

The trout within yon wimpling burn 

Glides swift, a silver dart, 
And safe beneath the shady thorn 

Defies the angler's art : 
My life was once that careless stream, 

That wanton trout was I ; 
But love, wi' unrelenting beam, 

Has scorch'd my fountain dry. 

The little flow'ret's peaceful lot, 

In yonder cliff that grows, 
Which, save the linnet's flight, I wot, 

Nae ruder visit knows, 
Was mine ; till love has o'er me past, 

And blighted a' my bloom, 
And now beneath the withering blast 

My youth and joy consume. 



CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. ; 

The waken'd lav'rock warbling springs, 

And climbs the early sky, 
Winnowing blithe her dewy wings 

In morning's rosy eye ; 
As little reckt I sorrow's power, 

Until the flowery snare 
O' witching love, in luckless hour, 

Made me the thrall o' care. 

O had my fate been Greenland snows, 

Or Afric's burning zone, 
Wi' man and nature leagu'd my foes, 

So Peggy ne'er I'd known ! 
The wretch whose doom is, " hope nae mair," 

What tongue his woes can tell! 
Within whose bosom, save despair, 

Nae kinder spirits dwell. 



LXXXVI. 

COMPOSED IN AUGUST. 
Tune — J had a horse, I had nae mair. 

Now westlin winds, and slaught'ring guns 

Bring autumn's pleasant weather ; 
The moorcock springs, on whirring wings, 

Amang the blooming heather : 
Now waving grain, wide o'er the plain, 

Delights the weary farmer ; 
And the moon shines bright, when I rove at night 

To muse upon my charmer. 



84 burns' songs, 

The partridge loves the fruitful fells ; 

The plover loves the mountains ; 
The woodcock haunts the lonely dells ; 

The soaring hern the fountains : 
Thro' lofty groves the cushat roves, 

The path of man to shun it ; 
The hazel bush o'erhangs the thrush, 

The spreading thorn the linnet. 

Thus ev'ry kind their pleasure find, 

The savage and the tender ; 
Some social join, and leagues combine ; 

Some solitary wander : 
A vaunt, away ! the cruel sway, 

Tyrannic man's dominion ; 
The sportsman's joy, the murd'ring cry, 

The flutt'ring, gory pinion ! 

But Peggy dear, the ev'ning's clear, 

Thick flies the skimming swallow ; 
The sky is blue, the fields in view, 

All fading-green and yellow : 
Come let us stray our gladsome way, 

And view the charms of nature ; 
The rustling corn, the fruited thorn, 

And every happy creature. 

We'll gently walk, and sweetly talk, 

Till the silent moon shine clearly ; 
I'll grasp thy waist, and, fondly prest, 

Swear how I love thee dearly : 
Not vernal show'rs to budding flowers, 

Not autumn to the farmer, 
So dear can be as thou to me, 

My fair, my lovely charmer ! 



CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. 85 

LXXXVII. 

TUNE — The wee wee man. 

bonnie was yon rosy brier, 

That blooms sae fair frae haunt o' man ; 

And bonnie she, and ah, how dear ! 
It shaded frae the e'enin sun. 

Yon rosebuds in the morning dew, 

How pure amang the leaves sae green ; 

But purer was the lover's vow 

They witnessed in their shade yestreen. 

All in its rude and prickly bower, 

That crimson rose, how sweet and fair ! 

But love is far a sweeter flower 
Amid life's thorny path o' care. 

The pathless wild, and wimpling burn, 

Wi' Chloris in my arms, be mine ; 
And I, the world, nor wish, nor scorn, 

Its joys and griefs alike resign. 



8(> BURNS' songs, 



LXXXVIII. 

FRAGMENT, IN WITHERSPOONS COLLECTION 
OF SCOTS SONGS. 

Tun e — Hughte Graham. 

" O gin my love were yon red rose 

That grows upon the castle wa', 
And I mysel' a drap o' dew, 

Into her bonnie breast to fa' ! 

Oh, there beyond expression blest, 

I'd feast on beauty a' the night ; 
Seal'd on her silk-saft faulds to rest, 

Till fley'd awa by Phoebus' light.' 

1 O were my love yon lilac fair, 
Wi' purple blossoms to the spring ; 

And I, a bird to shelter there, 
When wearied on my little wing : 

How I wad mourn, when it was torn 
By autumn wild, and winter rude ! 

But I wad sing on wanton wing, 

When youthfV May its bloom renew'd ■ . 

1 These stanzas were added by Burn?. 



\ 



CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. 87 

LXXXIX. 

THE BONNIE LAD THAT'S FAR AWA. 

O how can I be blithe and glad, 
Or how can I gang brisk and braw, 

When the bonnie lad that I lo'e best 
Is o'er the hills and far awa? 

It's no the frosty winter wind, 

It's no the driving drift and snaw ; 

But aye the tear comes in my ee, 
To think on him that's far awa. 

My father pat me frae his door, 

My friends they hae disown'd me a', 

But I hae ane will tak my part, 
The bonnie lad that's far awa. 

A pair o' gloves he gae to me, 

And silken snoods he gae me twa ; 

And I will wear them for his sake, 
The bonnie lad that's far awa. 

The weary winter soon will pass, 

And spring will deed the birken-shaw; 

And my sweet babie will be born, 
And he'll come hame that's far awa. 



88 burns' songs, 

XC. 

MEG 0' THE MILL. 

AlR — bonnie Lass, will you lie in a Barrack? 

O ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten, 
An' ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten ? 
She has gotten a coof wi' a claute o' siller, 
And broken the heart o' the barley Miller. 

The Miller was strappin, the Miller was ruddy ; 
A heart like a lord, and a hue like a lady ; 
The laird was a widdiefV, bleerit knurl ; 
She's left the guid fellow and ta'en the churl. 

The Miller he hecht her a heart leal and loving ; 
The Laird did address her wi' matter mair moving, 
A fine pacing horse wi' a clear chained bridle, 
A whip by her side, and a bonnie side saddle. 

O wae on the siller, it is sae prevailing ; 
And wae on the love that is fix'd on a mailin ! 
A tocher's nae word in a true lover's parle, 
But, gie me my love, and a ^g for the warl ! 



CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. 80 



XCI. 

O LASSIE, ART THOU SLEEPING YET ? 
TUNE — Let me in this ae Night. 

O lassie, art thou sleeping yet? 
Or art thou wakin, I would wit ? 
For love has bound me, hand and foot, 
And I would fain be in, jo. 

CHORUS. 

O let me in this ae night, 

This ae, ae, ae night ; 
For pity's sake this ae night , 

O rise and let me in, jo. 

Thou hear'st the winter wind and weet, 
Nae star blinks thro' the driving sleet ; 
Tak pity on my weary feet, 
And shield me frae the rain, jo. 
O let me in, #r. 

The bitter blast that round me blaws, 
Unheeded howls, unheeded fa's ; 
The cauldness o' thy heart's the cause 
Of a' my grief and pain, jo. 

O let me in, fyc. 



90 burns' songs, 

XCII. 

HER ANSWER. 

O tellna me o ? wind and rain, 
Upbraidna me wi cauld disdain ! 
Gae back the gait ye cam again, 
I winna let you in, jo. 

CHORUS. 

/ tell you now this ae night, 
This ae, ae, ae night ; 

And ancefor a' this ae night. 
I winna let you in, jo. 

The snellest blast at mirkest hours, 
That round the pathless wand'rer pours, 
Is nocht to what poor she endures, 
That's trusted faithless man, jo. 

/ tell you now, fyc. 

The sweetest flower that deck'd the mead, 
Now trodden like the vilest weed; 
Let simple maid the lesson read, 
The weird may be her ain, jo. 

I tell you now, fyc. 

The bird that charmed his summer-day, 
Is now the cruel fowler's prey ; 
Let witless, trusting woman say 
How aft her fate's the same, jo. 

I tell you now, fyc. 



CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. 1)1 



XCIII. 

BESS AND HER SPINNING WHEEL. 

Tune — Bottom, of the Punch BowL 

O leeze me on my spinning wheel, 
O leeze me on my rock and reel ; 
Frae tap to tae that cleeds me bien, 
And haps me fiel and warm at e'en ! 
I'll set me down and sing and spin, 
While laigh descends the simmer sun, 
Blest wi' content, and milk and meal — 
O leeze me on my spinning wheel. 

On ilka hand the burnies trot, 
And meet below my theekit cot ; 
The scented birk and hawthorn white 
Across the pool their arms unite, 
Alike to screen the birdie's nest, 
And little fishes caller rest : 
The sun blinks kindly in the biePy 
Where blithe I turn my spinning wheel. 

On lofty aiks the cushats wail, 
And echo cons the doolfu' tale ; 
The lintwhites in the hazel braes, 
Delighted, rival ither's lays : 
The craik amang the claver hay, 
The paitrick whirrin o'er the ley, 
The swallow jinkin round my shiel, 
Amuse me at my spinning wheel. 



92 burns' songs, 

Wi' sma' to sell, and less to buy, 
Aboon distress, below envy, 
O wha wad leave this humble state, 
For a ? the pride of a' the great? 
Amid their flaring, idle toys, 
Amid their cumbrous, dinsome joys, 
Can they the peace and pleasure feel 
Of Bessy at her spinning wheel. 



XCIV. 



Tune— Logan Water, 

O Logan, sweetly didst thou glide 
That day I was my Willie's bride ; 
And years sin syne hae o'er us run, 
Like Logan to the simmer sun. 
But now thy flow'ry banks appear 
Like drumlie winter, dark and drear, 
While my dear lad maun face his faes, 
Far, far frae me and Logan braes. 

Again the merry month o' May 
Has made our hills and valleys gay ; 
The birds rejoice in leafy bowers, 
The bees hum round the breathing flowers ; 
Blithe morning lifts his rosy eye, 
And evening's tears are tears of joy : 
My soul, delightless, a 7 surveys, 
While Willie's far frae Logan braes 



CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. 93 

Within yon milk-white hawthorn bush, 
Amang her nestlings, sits the thrush, 
Her faitlnV mate will share her toil, 
Or wi' his song her cares beguile : 
But I wi' my sweet nurslings here, 
Nae mate to help, nae mate to cheer, 
Pass widow'd nights and joyless days, 
While Willie's far frae Logan braes. 

O wae upon you, men o' state, 
That brethren rouse to deadly hate ! 
As ye mak mony a fond heart mourn, 
Sae may it on your heads return 1 
How can your flinty hearts enjoy 
The widow's tears, the orphan's cry? 
But soon may peace bring happy days, 
And Willie, hame to Logan braes ! 



xcv. 

THE POSIE. 

O luve will venture in, where it daurna weel be seen, 
O luve will venture in, where wisdom ance has been ; 
But I will down yon river rove, amang the wood sae 
green, 
And a' to pu' a posie to my ain dear May. 

The primrose I will pu', the firstling o' the year, 
And I will pu' the pink, the emblem o' my dear, 
For she's the pink o' womankind, and blooms without 
a peer ; 
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 



94 BURNS' songs, 

111 pu' the budding rose, when Phoebus peeps in view, 
For its like a baumy kiss o' her sweet bonnie mou ; 
The hyacinth's for constancy, wi' its unchanging blue, 
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 

The lily it is pure, and the lily it is fair, 
And in her lovely bosom I'll place the lily there ; 
The daisy's for simplicity and unaffected air, 
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 

The hawthorn I will pu', wi' its locks o* siller grey, 
Where, like an aged man, it stands at break o' day, 
But the songster's nest within the bush I winna tak away ; 
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 

The woodbine I will pu' when the e'ening star is near, 
And the diamond draps o' dew shall be her een sae clear : 
The violets for modesty which weel she fa's to wear, 
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 

I'll tie the posie round wi' the silken band o' luve, 
And I'll place it in her breast, and I'll swear by a' above, 
That to my latest draught o' life the band shall ne'er 
remuve, 
And this will be a posie to my ain dear May. 



CHIEFLY SCOTTISH, 95 



XCVL 

MARY MORISON. 

Tune — Bide ye yet. 

O Mary, at thy window be, 

It is the wish'd, the trysted hour ! 
Those smiles and glances let me see, 

That make the miser's treasure poor : 
How blithely wad I bid the stoure, 

A weary slave frae sun to sun; 
Could I the rich reward secure, 

The lovely Mary Morison. 

Yestreen, when to the trembling string 

The dance gaed thro' the lighted ha', 
To thee my fancy took its wing, 

I sat, but neither heard or saw : 
Tho' this was fair, and that was braw, 

And yon the toast of a' the town, 
I sigh'd, and said amang them a', 

" Ye arena Mary Morison/' 

O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace, 

Wha for thy sake wad gladly die I 
Or canst thou break that heart of his, 

Whase only faut is loving thee? 
If love for love thou wiltna gie, 

At least be pity to me shown ! 
A thought ungentle canna be 

The thought o' Mary Morison. 



96 burns' songs, 

XCVII. 

O MAY, THY MORN. 

O May, thy morn was ne'er sae sweet, 
As the mirk night o' December ; 

For sparkling was the rosy wine, 
And private was the chamber : 

And dear was she I darena name, 
But I will aye remember. 

And dear, fyc. 

And here's to them, that, like oursel, 
Can push about the jorum ; 

And here's to them that wish us weel, 
May a' that's guid watch o'er them ; 

And here's to them we darena tell, 
The dearest o' the quorum. 

And here's to, fyc. 



XCVIII. 
MY TOCHER'S THE JEWEL. 

O meikle thinks my luve o' my beauty, 

And meikle thinks my luve o' my kin ; 
But little thinks my luve I ken brawlie, 

My Tocher's the jewel has charms for him. 
It's a' for the apple he'll nourish the tree ; 

It's a' for the hiney he'll cherish the bee ; 
My laddie's sae meikle in luve wi' the siller, 

He canna hae luve to spare for me. 



CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. 97 

Your proffer o' luve's an airl -penny, 

My Tocher's the bargain ye wad buy ; 
But an ye be crafty, I am cunnin, 

Sae ye wi' anither your fortune maun try. 
Ye're like to the timmer o' yon rotten wood, 

Ye 're like to the bark o' yon rotten tree, 
Ye'll slip frae me like a knotless thread, 

And ye'll crack your credit wi' mae nor me. 



XCIX. 

LORD GREGORY. 

O mirk, mirk is this midnight hour, 

And loud the tempest's roar ; 
A waefu' wanderer seeks thy tow'r, 

Lord Gregory, ope thy door. 

An exile frae her father's ha', 

And a' for loving thee ; 
At least some pity on me shaw, 

If love it mayna be. 

Lord Gregory, mind'st thou not the grove, 

By bonnie Irwine side, 
Where first I own'd that virgin-love, 

I lang, lang had denied ? 

How aften didst thou pledge and vow, 

Thou wad for aye be mine ! 
And my fond heart, itsel sae true, 

It ne'er mistrusted thine. 

F 



98 burns' songs, 

Hard is thy heart, Lord Gregory, 

And flinty is thy breast : 
Thou dart of heaven that flashest by, 

O wilt thou give me rest ! 

Ye mustering thunders from above, 

Your willing victim see ! 
But spare, and pardon my fause love, 

His wrangs to heaven and me ! 



C. 

A RED, RED ROSE. 

TUNE — Wishaw's Favourite. 

O, my luve's like a red, red rose, 
That's newly sprung in June : 

O, my luve's like the melodie 
That's sweetly play'd in tune. 

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, 

So deep in luve am I : 
And I will luve thee still, my dear, 

Till a' the seas gang dry. 

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, 
And the rocks melt wi' the sun : 

I will luve thee still, my dear, 
While the sands o' life shall run. 

And fare thee weel, my only luve ! 

And fare thee weel awhile ! 
And I will come again, my luve, 

Tho' it were ten thousand mile. 



D &RB&0E 




asi eri rig \ bunders Ecam aibove 
billing victim V^^ Sonff ,. p . 98 . 



[TB l.l SMTP BY 
Air, l.itfiM 



CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. 1)9 



CI. 



Tune — J am a man unmarried *. 

0, once I lov'd a bonnie lass, 

Ay, and I love her still, 
And whilst that honour warms my breast 

111 love my handsome Nell. 

Fal lal de ral, fyc. 

As bonnie lasses I hae seen, 

And mony full as braw, 
But for a modest gracefu' mien 

The like I never saw. 

A bonnie lass, I will confess, 

Is pleasant to the ee, 
But without some better qualities 

She's no a lass for me. 

But Nelly's looks are blithe and sweet, 

And what is best of a', 
Her reputation is complete, 

And fair without a flaw. 

She dresses aye sae clean and neat, 

Both decent and genteel : 
And then there's something in her gait 

Gars ony dress look weel. 

, * This was our Poet's first attempt. 

F2 



100 burns' songs, 

A gaudy dress and gentle air 
May slightly touch the heart, 

But it's innocence and modesty 
That polishes the dart. 

? Tis this in Nelly pleases me, 
'Tis this enchants my soul ; 

For absolutely in my breast 
She reigns without control. 

Fal lal de ral 9 fyc. 



CII. 

DUET. 

Tune— The Sow's Tail. 

HE. 



O Philly, happy be that day 
When, roving through the gather'd hay, 
My youthful* heart was stown away, 
And by thy charms, my Philly. 



SHE. 



O Willy, aye I bless the grove 
Where first I own'd my maiden love, 
Whilst thou didst pledge the powers above 
To be my ain dear Willy. 



HE. 



As songsters of the early year, 
Are ilka day mair sweet to hear, 
So ilka day to me mair dear 
And charming is my Philly. 



CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. 101 



SHE. 



As on the brier the budding rose 
Still richer breathes and fairer blows, 
So in my tender bosom grows 
The love I bear my Willy. 



HE. 



The milder sun and bluer sky, 
That crown my harvest cares wi' joy, 
Were ne'er sae welcome to my eye 
As is a sight o* Philly. 



SHE. 



The little swallows wanton wing, 
Tho' wafting o'er the flowery spring, 
Did ne'er to me sic tidings bring, 
As meeting o' my Willy. 

HE. 

The bee that thro' the sunny hour 
Sips nectar in the opening flower, 
Compar'd wi' my delight is poor, 
Upon the lips o' Philly. 

SHE. 

The woodbine in the dewy weet 
When evening shades in silence meet, 
Is nocht sae fragrant or sae sweet 
As is a kiss o' Willy. 



102 burns' songs, 



HE. 



Let fortune's wheel at random rin, 
And fools may tyne, and knaves may win ; 
My thoughts are a' bound up in ane, 
And that's my ain dear Philly. 



SHE. 



What's a' the joys that gowd can gie ! 
I carena wealth a single flie ; 
The lad I love's the lad for me, 
And that's my ain dear Willy. 



cm. 

Tune — I had a Horse. 

O poortith cauld, and restless love, 

Ye wreck my peace between ye ; 
Yet poortith a' I could forgive, 

An' 't werena for my Jeanie. 
O why should fate sic pleasure have, 

Life's dearest bands untwining ? 
Or why sae sweet a flower as love 

Depend on Fortune's shining ? 

This warld's wealth when I think on, 
Its pride, and a' the lave o't ; 

Fie, fie on silly coward man, 
That he should be the slave o't. 
O why, fyc. 



CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. 103 

Her een sae bonnie blue betray 

How she repays my passion ; 
But prudence is her o'erword aye, 

She talks of rank and fashion. 
O why, fyc. 

O wha can prudence think upon, 

And sic a lassie by him ? 
O wha can prudence think upon, 

And sae in love as I am ? 
O why, fyc. 

How blest the humble cotter's fate ! 

He woos his simple dearie ; 
The sillie bogles, wealth and state, 

Can never make them eerie. 
O why should fate sic pleasure have, 

Life's dearest bands untwining ? 
Or why sae sweet a flower as love 

Depend on Fortune's shining? 



CIV. 



O raging fortune's withering blast 
Has laid my leaf full low ! O 

O raging fortune's withering blast 
Has laid my leaf full low ! O. 

My stem was fair, my bud was green, 
My blossom sweet did blow; O 

The dew fell fresh, the sun rose mild, 
And made my branches grow; O. 



104 burns' songs, 

But luckless fortune's northern storms 
Laid a' my blossoms low, O 

But luckless fortune's northern storms 
Laid a' my blossoms low, O. 



CV. 

BONNIE LESLEY. 

TUNE— The Collier's bonnie Bochter. 

O saw ye bonnie Lesley 
As she gaed o'er the border ? 

She's gane, like Alexander, 

To spread her conquests farther. 

To see her is to love her, 
And love but her for ever ; 

For Nature made her what she is, 
And ne'er made sic anither I 

Thou art a queen, fair Lesley, 
Thy subjects we, before thee : 

Thou art divine, fair Lesley, 
The hearts o' men adore thee. 

The Deil he cou'dna scaith thee, 
Or aught that wad belang thee ; 

He'd look into thy bonnie face, 
And say, " I canna wrang thee." 

The Powers aboon will tent thee ; 

Misfortune sha'na steer thee ; 
Thou'rt like themselves sae lovely, 

That ill they'll ne'er let near thee. 



CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. 105 

Return again, fair Lesley, 

Return to Caledonie ! 
That we may brag, we hae a lass 

There 's nane again sae bonnie. 



CVI. 
SAW YE MY PHELY. 



Quasi dicat Phillis. 



TUNE — When she cam ben she bobbit. 

O saw ye my dear, my Phely? 
O saw ye my dear, my Phely ? 
She's down i' the grove, she's, wi' a new love, 
She winna come hame to her Willy. 

What says she, my dearest, my Phely ? 
What says she, my dearest, my Phely? 
She lets thee to wit that she has thee forgot, 
And for ever disowns thee her Willy. 

O had I ne'er seen thee, my Phely ! 
O had I ne'er seen thee, my Phely ! 
As light as the air, and fause as thou's fair. 
Thou'st broken the heart o' thy Willy. 



F3 



106 BURNS' SONGS, 

CVII. 

ADDRESS TO THE WOOD-LARK. 

TUNE — Where 11 bonnie Ann lie. 
Or — Locheroch side, 

O stay, sweet warbling wood-lark, stay, 
Nor quit me for the trembling spray, 
A hapless lover courts thy lay, 
Thy soothing fond complaining. 

Again, again that tender part, 
That I may catch thy melting art ; 
For surely that wad touch her heart, 
Wha kills me wi' disdaining. 

Say, was thy little mate unkind, 
And heard thee as the careless wind ? 
Oh, nocht but love and sorrow join'd, 
Sic notes o 7 wae could wauken. 

Thou tells o' never-ending care ; 
O' speechless grief, and dark despair; 
For pity's sake, sweet bird, nae mair! 
Or my poor heart is broken ! 



CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. 107 

CVIII. 

TUNE — This is no my ain House. 
CHORUS. 

O this is no my ain lassie, 

Fair thd 1 the lassie be ; 
O weel ken I my ain lassie, 

Kind love is in her ee. 

I see a form, I see a face, 
Ye weel may wi' the fairest place : 
It wants, to me, the witching grace, 
The kind love that's in her ee. 
O this is no, 8fc. 

She's bonnie, blooming, straight, and tall, 
And lang has had my heart in thrall ; 
And aye it charms my very saul, 
The kind love that's in her ee. 
O this is no, fyc. 

A thief sae pawkie is my Jean, 
To steal a blink, by a' unseen ; 
But gleg as light are lovers' een, 
When kind love is in the ee. 

O this is no, Sfc. 

It may escape the courtly sparks, 
It may escape the learned clerks ; 
But weel the watching lover marks 
The kind love that's in her ee. 
O this is no, §t. 



108 BURNS' SONGS, 

CIX. 

TIBBIE, I HAE SEEN THE DAY. 

Tune — Invercauld's Reel, 

CHORUS. 

O Tibbie, I hae seen the day, 
Ye wouldna been sae shy ; 

For laik o y gear ye lightly me, 
But, trowth, I carena by. 

Yestreen I met you on the moor, 
Ye spakna, but gaed by like stoure : 
Ye geek at me because I'm poor, 
But fient a hair care I. 

O Tibbie, I hae, fyc. 

I doubtna, lass, but ye may think, 
Because ye hae the name o' clink, 
That ye can please me at a wink, 
Whene'er ye like to try. 

O Tibbie, I hae, fyc> 

But sorrow tak him that's sae mean, 
Altho' his pouch o' coin were clean, 
Wha follows ony saucy quean 
That looks sae proud and high. 

O Tibbie, I hae, §*c. 

Altho' a lad were e'er sae smart, 
If that he want the yellow dirt, 
Ye '11 cast your head anither airt, 
And answer him fV dry. 

O Tibbie, I hae, fyc. 



CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. 109 

But if he hae the name o' gear, 
Ye'll fasten to him like a brier, 
Tho' hardly he for sense or lear 
Be better than the kye. 

O Tibbie, I hae, §c 

But, Tibbie, lass, tak my advice, 
Your daddy's gear maks you sae nice; 
The deil a ane wad spier your price, 
Were ye as poor as I. 

O Tibbie, I hae, fyc. 

There lives a lass in yonder park, 
I wouldna gie her in her sark, 
For thee wi' a' thy thousand mark ; 
Ye needna look sae high. 

O Tibbie, I hae, fyc. 



CX. 

O, WAT YE WHA'S IN YON TOWN? 
Tune — The bonnie Lass in yon Town, 

O, wat ye wha's in yon town, 

Ye see the e'enin sun upon ? 
The fairest dame's in yon town, 

That e'enin sun is shining on. 

Now haply down yon gay green shaw, 
She wanders by yon spreading tree : 

How blest ye flow'rs that round her blaw, 
Ye catch the glances o* her ee ! 



110 burns' songs, 

How blest ye birds that round her sing, 
And welcome in the blooming year, 

And doubly welcome be the spring, 
The season to my Lucy dear ! 

The sun blinks blithe on yon town, 
And on yon bonnie braes of Ayr ; 

But my delight in yon town, 
And dearest bliss, is Lucy fair. 

Without my love, not a' the charms 
O* Paradise could yield me joy; 

But gie me Lucy in my arms, 

And welcome Lapland's dreary sky. 

My cave wad be a lover's bower, 
Tho' raging winter rent the air ; 

And she a lovely little flower, 

That I wad tent and shelter there. 

sweet is she in yon town, 

Yon sinkin sun's gane down upon ; 
A fairer than's in yon town, 

His setting beam ne'er shone upon. 

If angry fate is sworn my foe, 

And suffering I am doom'd to bear ; 

1 careless quit aught else below, 

But spare me, spare me, Lucy dear. 

For while life's dearest blood is warm, 
Ae thought frae her shall ne'er depart, 

And she — as fairest is her form ! 
She has the truest, kindest heart. 



CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. Ill 

CXI. 

0, WERE I ON PARNASSUS' HILL. 

TUNE — My Love is lost to me. 

O, were I on Parnassus' hill 
Or had of Helicon my fill ; 
That I might catch poetic skill, 

To sing how dear I love thee. 
But Nith maun be my muse's well, 
My muse maun be thy bonnie sel ; 
On Corsincon 111 glowr and spell, 

And write how dear I love thee. 

Then come, sweet muse, inspire my lay ! 
For a' the lee-lang simmer's day, 
I coudna sing, I coudna say, 

How much, how dear I love thee. 
I see thee dancing o'er the green, 
Thy waist sae jimp, thy limbs sae clean, 
Thy tempting looks, thy roguish een — 

By heaven and earth I love thee ! 

By night, by day, a-field, at hame, 
The thoughts o' thee my breast inflame ; 
And aye I muse and sing thy name, 

I only live to love thee. 
Tho' I were doomed to wander on, 
Beyond the sea, beyond the sun, 
Till my last weary sand was run ; 

Till then — and then I'd love thee. 



112 burns' songs, 



CXII. 

Tune — Morag. 

O wha is she that lo'es me, 
And has my heart a-keeping? 

O sweet is she that lo'es me, 
As dews o' simmer weeping*, 
In tears the rose-buds steeping. 

CHORUS. 

O that's the lassie o' my heart, 

My lassie ever dearer ; 
O that's the queen o' womankind, 

And ne'er a ane to peer her. 

If thou shalt meet a lassie, 
In grace and beauty charming, 

That e'en thy chosen lassie, 

Ere while thy breast sae warming, 
Had ne'er sic powers alarming ; 
O that's, fyc. 

If thou hadst heard her talking, 
And thy attentions plighted, 

That ilka body talking, 
But her by thee is slighted, 
And thou art all delighted ; 
O that's, fyc* 



CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. 113 

If thou hast met this fair one ; 

When frae her thou hast parted, 
If every other fair one, 

But her, thou hast deserted, 

And thou art broken-hearted ; — 
O that's, fyc. 



CXIII. 

THE RANTIN DOG THE DADDIE O'T, 

O wha my babie-clouts will buy? 
Wha will tent me when I cry ? 
Wha will kiss me whare I lie ? 
The rantin dog the daddie o't. — 

Wha will own he did the faut? 
Wha will buy my groanin-maut ? 
Wha will tell me how to ca't ? 
The rantin dog the daddie o't. — 

When I mount the creepie-chair, 
Wha will sit beside me there ? 
Gie me Rob, I seek nae mair, 
The rantin dog the daddie o't. — 

Wha will crack to me my lane? 
Wha will mak me fid gin fain? 
Wha will kiss me o'er again ? 
The rantin dog the daddie o't. — 



114 burns' songs, 

CXIV. 

WHISTLE, AND I'LL COME TO YOU, MY LAD. 

O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad ; 
O whistle, and 111 come to you, my lad : 
Tho' father and mither and a' should gae mad, 
O w r histle, and 111 come to you, my lad. 

But warily tent, when ye come to court me, 
And comena unless the back-yett be a-jee ; 
Syne up the back-stile, and let naebody see, 
And come as ye werena comin to me. 
And ccme, &c. 

O whistle, #y\ 

At kirk, or at market, whene'er ye meet me, 
Gang by me as tho' that ye car'dna a the : 
But steal me a blink o ? your bonnie black ee, 
Yet look as ye werena lookin at me. 
Yet look, &c. 

O whistle, fyc. 

Aye vow and protest that ye carena for me, 
And whiles ye may lightly my beauty a wee ; 
But courtna anither, tho' jokin ye be, 
For fear that she wyle your fancy frae me. 
For fear, &c. 

O whistle, fyc. 



CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. 115 

cxv. 

WILLIE BREW'D A PECK 0' MAUT. 

O, Willie brew'd a peck o' maut, 

And Rob and Allan came to see ; 
Three blither hearts, that lee-lang night. 

Ye wadna find in Christendie. 

CHORUS. 

We arena fou, we're no that fou, 

But just a drappie in our ee ; 
The cock may craw, the day may daw, 

And aye we'll taste the barley bree. 

Here are we met, three merry boys, 

Three merry boys I trow are we ; 
And mony a night we've merry been, 

And mony mae we hope to be ! 

We arena fou, fyc. 

It is the moon, I ken her horn, 

That's blinkin in the lift sae hie ; 
She shines sae bright to wyle us hame, 

But by my sooth she'll wait a wee ! 
We arena fou, §*c. 

Wha first shall rise to gang awa, 

A cuckold, coward loun is he ! 
Wha last beside his chair shall fa\ 

He is the king amang us three ! 
We arena fou, v 



116 BURNS' SONGS, 

CXVL 

I LOVE MY JEAN. 

Tune — Miss Admiral Gordon's Strathspey . 

Of a' the airts the wind can blaw, 

I dearly like the west, 
For there the bonnie lassie lives, 

The lassie I lo'e best : 
There wild woods grow, and rivers row, 

And mony a hill between ; 
But day and night my fancy's flight 

Is ever wi' my Jean. 

I see her in the dewy flowers, 

I see her sweet and fair : 
I hear her in the tunefu' birds, 

I hear her charm the air : 
There's not a bonnie flower that springs 

By fountain, shaw, or green ; 
There's not a bonnie bird that sings, 

But minds me o' my Jean. 



CXVII. 

OPEN THE DOOR TO ME, OH ! 
WITH ALTERATIONS. 

Oh, open the door, some pity to shew, 

Oh, open the door to me, Oh ! 
Tho' thou hast been false, I'll ever prove true, 

Oh, open the door to me, Oh ! 



CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. 117 

Cauld is the blast upon my pale cheek, 

But caulder thy love for me, Oh ! 
The frost that freezes the life at my heart, 

Is nought to my pains frae thee, Oh ! 

The wan moon is setting behind the white wave, 

And time is setting with me, Oh ! 
False friends, false love, farewell ! for mair 

I'll ne'er trouble them, nor thee, Oh ! 

She has open'd the door, she has open'd it wide ; 

She sees his pale corse on the plain, Oh ! 
My true love, she cried, and sank down by his side, 

Never to rise again, Oh ! 



CXVIIL 

ADDRESS TO A LADY. 

Tune — The Lass of Livingstone, 

Oh, wert thou in the cauld blast, 

On yonder lea, on yonder lea ; 
My plaidie to the angry airt, 

I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee. 
Or did misfortune's bitter storms 

Around thee blaw, around thee blaw, 
Thy bield should be my bosom, 

To share it a', to share it a'. 



118 BURNS' SONGS, 

Or were I in the wildest waste, 

Sae black and bare, sae black and bare, 
The desert were a paradise, 

If thou wert there, if thou wert there. 
Or were I monarch o' the globe, 

Wi* thee to reign, wi' thee to reign, 
The brightest jewel in my crown, 

Wad be my queen, wad be my queen. 



CXIX. 

TUNE — If he be a Butcher neat and trim. 

On Cessnock banks there lives a lass, 
Could I describe her shape and mien ; 

The graces of her weel-far'd face, 
And the glancin' of her sparklin' een. 

She's fresher than the morning dawn 
When rising Phoebus first is seen, 

When dewdrops twinkle o'er the lawn ; 
An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' een. 

She's stately like yon youthful ash, 
That grows the cowslip braes between, 

And shoots its head above each bush ; 
An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' een. 

She's spotless as the flow'ring thorn 
With flow'rs so white and leaves so green, 

When purest in the dewy morn ; 

An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' een. \ 



CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. 119 

Her looks are like the sportive lamb, 
When flow'ry May adorns the scene, 

That wantons round its bleating dam ; 
An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' een. 

Her hair is like the curling mist 

That shades the mountain-side at e'en, 

When flow'r-reviving rains are past ; 
An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' een. 

Her forehead's like the show'ry bow, 

When shining sunbeams intervene 
And gild the distant mountain's brow ; 

An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' een. 

Her voice is like the ev'ning thrush 
That sings on Cessnock banks unseen, 

While his mate sits nestling in the bush ; 
An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' een. 

Her lips are like the cherries ripe, 
That sunny walls from Boreas screen, 

They tempt the taste and charm the sight ; 
An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' een. 

Her teeth are like a flock of sheep, 

With fleeces newly washen clean, 
That slowly mount the rising steep ; 

An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' een. 

Her breath is like the fragrant breeze 
That gently stirs the blossom'd bean, 

When Phoebus sinks behind the seas ; 
An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' een. 



120 BURNS' SONGS, 

But it's not her air, her form, her face, 
Tho' matching beauty's fabled queen, 

But the mind that shines in ev'ry grace, 
An' chiefly in her sparkkV een. 



cxx. 

FRAGMENT. 

TUNE — John Anderson my jo. 

One night as I did wander, 

When corn begins to shoot, 
I sat me down to ponder, 

Upon an auld tree root : 
Auld Aire ran by before me, 

And bicker'd to the seas ; 
A cushat crowded o'er me 

That echoed thro' the braes. 



CXXI. 



Out over the Forth I look to the north, 

But what is the north and its Highlands to me ? 

The south nor the east gie ease to my breast, 
The far foreign land, or the wild rolling sea. 

But I look to the west, when I gae to rest, 

That happy my dreams and my slumbers may be ; 

For far in the west lives he I lo'e best, 
The lad that is dear to my babie and me. 



CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. 121 



CXXII. 

Powers celestial, whose protection 

Ever guards the virtuous fair, 
While in distant climes I wander, 

Let my Mary be your care : 
Let her form sae fair and faultless, 

Fair and faultless as your own ; 
Let my Mary's kindred spirit 

Draw your choicest influence down. 

Make the gales you waft around her 

Soft and peaceful as her breast ; 
Breathing in the breeze that fans her, 

Sooth her bosom into rest : 
Guardian angels, O protect her, 

When in distant lands I roam ; 
To realms unknown while fate exiles me, 

Make her bosom still my home. 



CXXIII. 
RAVING WINDS AROUND HER BLOWING. 

TUNE — M'Gregor of Ruaras Lament. 

Raving winds around her blowing, 
Yellow leaves the woodlands strowing, 
By a river hoarsely roaring, 
Isabella stray'd deploring. 

G 



122 BURNS' songs, 

" Farewell, hours that late did measure 
Sunshine days of joy and pleasure ; 
Hail, thou gloomy night of sorrow, 
Cheerless night that knows no morrow ! 

" O'er the past too fondly wandering, 
On the hopeless future pondering ; 
Chilly grief my life-blood freezes, 
Fell despair my fancy seizes. 
Life, thou soul of every blessing, 
Load to misery most distressing, 
O how gladly I'd resign thee, 
And to dark oblivion join thee V* 



CXXIV. 

SHE SAYS SHE LO'ES ME BEST OF A\ 
TUNE — Onagh's Water-fall. 

Sae flaxen were her ringlets, 

Her eyebrows of a darker hue, 
Bewitchingly o'er-arching 

Twa laughing een o 1 bonnie blue. 
Her smiling, sae wyling, 

Wad make a wretch forget his woe ; 
What pleasure, what treasure, 

Unto these rosy lips to grow : 
Such was my Chloris' bonnie face, 

When first her bonnie face I saw, 
And aye my CMoris* dearest charm, 

She says she lo'es me best of a\ 



CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. 123 

Like harmony her motion ; 

Her pretty ancle is a spy 
Betraying fair proportion, 

Wad make a saint forget the sky. 
Sae warming, sae charming, 

Her faultless form and gracefu' air ; 
Ilk feature — auld Nature 

Declared that she could do nae mair : 
Hers are the willing chains o' love, 

By conquering beauty's sovereign law ; 
And aye my Chloris' dearest charm, 

She says she lo'es me best of a\ 

Let others love the city, 

And gaudy shew at sunny noon ; 
Gie me the lonely valley, 

The dewy eve, and rising moon 
Fair beaming, and streaming, 

Her silver light the boughs amang ; 
While falling, recalling, 

The amorous thrush concludes his sang : 
There, dearest Chloris, wilt thou rove 

By wimpling burn and leafy shaw, 
And hear my vows o' truth and love, 

And say thou 1^'es me best of a' ? 



g 2 



124 BURNS' SONGS, 

cxxv. 

BANNOCKBURN. 

ROBERT BRUCE's ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY. 

Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, 
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led ; 
Welcome to your gory bed, 
Or to glorious victorie. 

Now's the day, and now's the hour ; 
See the front o' battle lower ; 
See approach proud Edward's power — 
Edward ! chains and slaverie ! 

Wha will be a traitor knave ? 
Wha can fill a coward's grave ? 
Wha sae base as be a slave ? 
Traitor ! coward ! turn and flee ! 

Wha for Scotland's king and law 
Freedom's sword will strongly draw, 
Free-man stand, or free-man fa' ? 
Caledonian ! on wi' me ! 

By oppression's woes and pains ! 
By your sons in servile chains ! 
We will drain our dearest veins, 
But they shall be — shall be free ! 

Lay the proud usurpers low ! 
Tyrants fall in every foe ! 
Liberty's in every blow ! 
Forward ! let us do, or die ! 



CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. 12<J 

CXXVI. 

MY WIFE'S A WINSOME WEE THING. 

She is a winsome wee thing, 
She is a handsome wee thing, 
She is a bonnie wee thing, 
This sweet wee wife o' mine. 

I never saw a fairer, 

I never lo'ed a dearer, 

And niest my heart I'll wear her, 

For fear my jewel tine. 

She is a winsome wee thing, 
She is a handsome wee thing, 
She is a bonnie wee thing, 
This sweet wee wife o' mine. 

The warld's wrack we share o't, 
The warstle and the care o't ; 
Wi' her I'll blithely bear it, 
And think my lot divine. 



126 burns' songs, 

CXXVII. 

SHE'S FAIR AND FAUSE. 

She's fair and fause that causes my smart, 

I lo'ed her meikle and lang : 
She's broken her vow, she's broken my heart, 

And I may e'en gae hang. 
A coof cam in wi' rowth o' gear, 
And I hae tint my dearest dear, 
But woman is but warld's gear, 

Sae let the bonnie lass gang. 

Whae'er ye be that woman love, 

To this be never blind, 
Nae ferlie 'tis tho' fickle she prove, 

A woman has't by kind : 
O woman lovely, woman fair ! 
An angel form's faun to thy share, 
'Twad been o'er meikle to've gien thee mair, 

I mean an angel mind. 



CXXVIII. 

AULD LANG SYNE. 



Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 
And never brought to min' ? 

Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 
And days o' lang syne ? 



CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. 127 



CHORUS. 

For auld lang syne, my dear, 

For auld lang syne, 
We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet 

For auld lang syne. 

We twa hae run about the braes, 

And pu'd the gowans fine ; 
But we've wandered mony a weary foot 

Sin auld lang syne. 

For auld, £c. 

We twa hae paidl't i' the burn, 

Frae mornin sun till dine : 
But seas between us braid hae roar'd 

Sin auld lang syne. 

For auld, Sfc. 

And here's a hand, my trusty fiere, 

And gie's a hand o' thine ; 
And we'll tak a right guid willie-waught, 

For auld lang syne. 

For auld, fyc. 

And surely ye'll be your pint-stowp, 

And surely I'll be mine ; 
And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet 

For auld lang syne. 

For auld, fyc. 



128 burns' songs, 



CXXIX. 

THE LOVERS MORNING SALUTE TO HIS 
MISTRESS. 

Tune — Deil tak the Wars. 

Sleep'st thou, or wak'st thou, fairest creature? 

Rosy morn now lifts his eye, 
Numbering ilka bud which Nature 

Waters wi' the tears o' joy : 

Now thro' the leafy woods, 

And by the reeking floods, 
Wild Nature's tenants freely, gladly stray ; 

The lintwhite in his bower 

Chants o'er the breathing flower ; 

The lav rock to the sky 

Ascends wi' sangs o* joy, 
While the sun and thou arise to bless the day. 

Phoebus, gilding the brow o' morning, 

Banishes ilk darksome shade, 
Nature gladdening and adorning ; 

Such to me my lovely maid. 

When absent frae my fair, 

The murky shades o' care 
With starless gloom overcast my sullen sky : 

But when in beauty's light 

She meets my ravish'd sight, 

When through my very heart 

Her beaming glories dart ; 
'Tis then I wake to life, to light, and joy. 



CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. 129 

cxxx. 

STAY, MY CHARMER. 

TUNE — An Gille dubh ciar dhubh. 

Stay, my charmer, can you leave me? 

Cruel, cruel to deceive me ! 

Well you know how much you grieve me ; 

Cruel charmer, can you go? 

Cruel charmer, can you go ? 

By my love so ill requited ; 

By the faith you fondly plighted ; 

By the pangs of lovers slighted ; 

Do not, do not leave me so ! 

Do not, do not leave me so ! 



CXXXI. 

CASTLE GORDON. 

Streams that glide in orient plains, 
Never hound by winter's chains ! 
Glowing here on golden sands, 
There commix'd with foulest stains 
From tyranny's empurpled bands : 
These, their richly-gleaming waves, 
I leave to tyrants and their slaves; 
Give me the stream that sweetly laves 
The banks by Castle Gordon. 
G 3 



130 burns' songs, 

Spicy Forests, ever gay, 
Shading from the burning ray 
Hapless wretches sold to toil, 
Or the ruthless native's way, 
Bent on slaughter, blood, and spoil : 
Woods that ever verdant wave, 
I leave the tyrant and the slave, 
Give me the groves that lofty brave 
The storms, by Castle Gordon. 

Wildly here without control, 
Nature reigns and rules the whole; 
In that sober pensive mood, 
Dearest to the feeling soul, 
She plants the forest, pours the flood ; 
Life's poor day I'll musing rave, 
And find at night a sheltering cave, 
Where waters flow and wild woods wave, 
By bonnie Castle Gordon * . 



CXXXII. 

TUNE — Craigie-burn-wood, 

Sweet fa's the eve on Craigie-burn, 
And blithe awakes the morrow, 

But a' the pride o' spring's return 
Can yield me nocht but sorrow. 



1 These verses our Poet composed to be sung to Morag, a Highland 
air, of which he was extremely fond. 



CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. 131 

I see the flowers and spreading trees, 

I hear the wild birds singing ; 
But what a weary wight can please, 

And care his bosom wringing? 

Fain, fain would I my griefs impart, 

Yet darena for your anger ; 
But secret love will break my heart, 

If I conceal it langer. 

If thou refuse to pity me, 

If thou shalt love anither, 
When yon green leaves fa' frae the tree, 

Around my grave they'll wither 1 . 



CXXXIII. 

THE BRAES O' B ALLOCHM YLE. 

Tune— Mm Forbes' s Farewell to Banff. 

The Catrine woods were yellow seen, 

The flowers decay'd on Catrine lee, 
Nae laverock sang on hillock green, 

But nature sicken'd on the ee. 
Thro' faded groves Maria sang, 

Hersel in beauty's bloom the while, 
And aye the wild-wood echoes rang, 

Fareweel the braes o' Ballochmyle. 

1 Another version of this Song will be found at page 16. 



132 burns' songs, 

Low in your wintry beds, ye flowers, 

Again yeTl flourish fresh and fair ; 
Ye birdies dumb, in withering bowers, 

Again ye'll charm the vocal air. 
But here, alas ! for me nae mair 

Shall birdie charm, or floweret smile; 
Fareweel the bonnie banks of Ayr, 

Fareweel, fareweel ! sweet Ballochmyle. 



CXXXIV. 

THE DAY RETURNS, MY BOSOM BURNS. 

Tun E — Seventh of November. 

The day returns, my bosom burns, 

The blissful day we twa did meet, 
Tho' winter wild in tempest toird, 

Ne'er summer-sun was half sae sweet. 
Than a' the pride that loads the tide, 

And crosses o'er the sultry line ; 
Than kingly robes, than crowns and globes, 

Heaven gave me more, it made thee mine. 

While day and night can bring delight, 

Or nature aught of pleasure give ; 
While joys above my mind can move, 

For thee, and thee alone, I live ! 
When that grim foe of life below 

Comes in between to make us part ; 
The iron hand that breaks our band, 

It breaks my bliss — it breaks my heart. 



CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. 133 

cxxxv. 



At a meeting of his brother Excisemen in Dumfries, Burns, being 
called upon for a Song, handed these verses extempore to the Pre- 
sident, written on the back of a letter. 



The Deil cam fiddling thro* the town, 
And danc'd awa wi' the Exciseman ; 

And ilka wife cry'd, " Auld Mahoun, 
We wish you luck o' your prize, man. 

" We'll mak our maut, and brew our drink. 
We'll dance, and sing, and rejoice, man ; 

And mony thanks to the muckle black Deil 
That dancd awa wV the Exciseman, 

" There's threesome reels, and foursome reels, 
There's hornpipes and strathspeys, man ; 

But the ae best dance e'er cam to our Ian', 

Was — the DeiPs awa wi' the Exciseman, 

We'll mak our maut, fyc." 



CXXXVI. 

Tone— Roslin Castle. 



The gloomy night is gath'ring fast, 
Loud roars the wild inconstant blast ; 
Yon murky cloud is foul with rain, 
I see it driving o'er the plain : 



134 burns' songs, 

The hunter now has left the moor, 
The scatter'd coveys meet secure, 
While here I wander, prest with care, 
Along the lonely banks of Ayr. 

The Autumn mourns her rip'ning corn 
By early Winter's ravage torn ; 
Across her placid, azure sky, 
She sees the scowling tempest fly ; 
Chill runs my blood to hear it rave, 
I think upon the stormy wave, 
Where many a danger I must dare, 
Far from the bonnie banks of Ayr. 

'Tis not the surging billow's roar, 
'Tis not that fatal, deadly shore ; 
Tho' death in ev'ry shape appear, 
The wretched have no more to fear : 
But round my heart the ties are bound, 
That heart transpierced with many a wound ; 
These bleed afresh, those ties I tear, 
To leave the bonnie banks of Ayr, 

Farewell, old Coila's hills and dales, 
Her heathy moors and winding vales ; 
The scenes where wretched fancy roves, 
Pursuing past, unhappy loves ! 
Farewell, my friends ! Farewell, my foes ! 
My peace with these, my love with those — 
The bursting tears my heart declare, 
Farewell the bonnie banks of Ayr ! 



CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. 135 

CXXXVII. 

HUNTING SONG. 

I red you beware at the hunting* 

The heather was blooming, the meadows were mawn, 
Our lads gaed a hunting, ae day at the dawn, 
O'er moors and o'er mosses and mony a glen, 
At length they discover' d a bonnie moor-hen. 

I red you beware at the hunting, young men ; 
I red you beware at the hunting, young men ; 
Tak some on the wing, and some as they spring. 
But cannily steal on a bonnie moor-hen. 

Sweet brushing the dew from the brown heather bells, 
Her colours betray'd her on yon mossy fells ; 
Her plumage outlustred the pride o* the spring, 
And O ! as she wantoned gay on the wing. 
/ red, 8fc. 

Auld Phoebus himsel, as he peep'd o'er the hill, 
In spite at her plumage he tried his skill ; 
He levell'd his rays where she bask'd on the brae — 
His rays were outshone, and but mark'd where she lay. 
i" red, 3*c. 

They hunted the valley, they hunted the hill ; 
The best of our lads wi' the best o' their skill ; 
But still as the fairest she sat in their sight, 
Then, whirr ! she was over, a mile at a flight. 
/ red, Sfc. 



136 burns' songs, 

CXXXVIII. 

THE LAZY MIST. 

Irish Air — Coolun. 

The lazy mist hangs from the brow of the hill, 
Concealing the course of the dark-winding rill ; 
How languid the scenes, late so sprightly, appear, 
As autumn to winter resigns the pale year ! 
The forests are leafless, the meadows are brown, 
And all the gay foppery of summer is flown : 
Apart let me wander, apart let me muse, 
How quick time is flying, how keen fate pursues ; 
How long I have hVd, but how much liv'd in vain : 
How little of life's scanty span may remain : 
What aspects, old Time, in his progress, has worn ; 
What ties, cruel fate in my bosom has torn. 
How foolish, or worse, till our summit is gain'd! 
And downward, how weaken'd, how darkened, how 

pain'd ! 
This life's not worth having with all it can give ; 
For something beyond it poor man sure must live. 



CXXXIX. 

THE LOVELY LASS OF INVERNESS. 

The lovely lass o' Inverness, 

Nae joy nor pleasure can she see ; 
For e'en and morn she cries, alas ! 

And aye the saut tear blins her ee : 
Drumossie moor, Drumossie day, 

A waefu/ day it was to me ; 
For there I lost my father dear, 

My father dear, and brethren three. 



CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. 137 

Their winding-sheet the bluidy clay, 

Their graves are growing green to see ; 
And by them lies the dearest lad 

That ever blest a woman's ee ! 
Now wae to thee, thou cm el lord, 

A bluidy man I trow thou be ; 
For mony a heart thou hast made sair, 

That ne'er did wrang to thine or thee. 



CXL. 
BONNIE BELL. 

The smiling spring comes in rejoicing, 

And surly winter grimly flies : 
Now crystal clear are the falling waters, 

And bonnie blue are the sunny skies ; 
Fresh o'er the mountains breaks forth the morning, 

The evening gilds the ocean's swell; 
All creatures joy in the sun's returning, 

And I rejoice in my bonnie Bell. 

The flowery spring leads sunny summer, 

And yellow autumn presses near, 
Then in his turn comes gloomy winter, 

Till smiling spring again appear. 
Thus seasons dancing, life advancing, 

Old Time and Nature their changes tell, 
But never ranging, still unchanging, 

I adore my bonnie Bell. 



138 BURNS' SONGS, 

CXLI. 
THE BANKS OF NITH. 

Tune — Robie Donna Goracli. 

The Thames flows proudly to the sea, 

Where royal cities stately stand ; 
But sweeter flows the Nith to me, 

Where Cummins ance had high command : 
When shall I see that honoured land, 

That winding stream I love so dear ! 
Must wayward fortune's adverse hand 

For ever, ever keep me here ? 

How lovely, Nith, thy fruitful vales, 

Where spreading hawthorns gaily bloom ; 
How sweetly wind thy sloping dales, 

Where lambkins wanton thro' the broom ! 
Tho* wandering, now, must be my doom, 

Far from thy bonnie banks and braes, 
May there my latest hours consume, 

Amang the friends of early days ! 



CXLII. 



FRAGMENT. 



The winter it is past, and the simmer comes at last, 
And the small birds s^ng on every tree ; 

Now every thing is glad, while I am very sad > 
Since my true love is parted from me. 



CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. 139 

The rose upon the brier by the waters running clear, 
May have charms for the linnet or the bee ; 

Their little loves are blest, and their little hearts at rest, 
But my true love is parted from me. 



CXLIII. 

TUNE — Humours of Glen. 

Their groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign lands reckon. 
Where bright-beaming summers exalt the perfume ; 

Far dearer to me yon lone glen o' green breckan, 
Wi' the burn stealing under the lang yellow broom. 

Far dearer to me are yon humble brocm bowers, 
Where the blue-bell and gowan lurk lowly unseen ; 

For there, lightly tripping amang the wild flowers, 
A listening the linnet, aft wanders my Jean. 

Tho' rich is the breeze in their gay sunny valleys, 
And cauld, Caledonia's blast on the wave ; 

Their sweet-scented woodlands that skirt the proud 
palace, 
What are they ? The haunt of the tyrant and slave ! 

The slave's spicy forests, and gold-bubbling fountains, 
The brave Caledonian views wi' disdain ; 

He wanders as free as the winds of his mountains, 
Save Love's willing fetters, the chains o' his Jean. 



140 burns' songs, 

CXLIV. 

BONNIE JEAN. 

There was a lass, and she was fair, 
At kirk and market to be seen, 

When a' the fairest maids were met, 
The fairest maid was bonnie Jean. 

And aye she wrought her mamnriVs wark, 
And aye she sang sae merrily : 

The blithest bird upon the bush 
Had ne'er a lighter heart than she. 

But hawks will rob the tender joys 
That bless the little lintwhite's nest ; 

And frost will blight the fairest flowers, 
And love will break the soundest rest. 

Young Robie was the brawest lad, 
The flower and pride of a' the glen ; 

And he had owsen, sheep, and kye, 
And wanton naigies nine or ten. 

He gaed wi' Jeanie to the tryste, 
He danc'd wi' Jeanie on the down ; 

And lang ere witless Jeanie wist, 

Her heart was tint, her peace was stown. 

As in the bosom o' the stream 

The moon-beam dwells at dewy e'en ; 

So trembling, pure, was tender love, 
Within the breast o' bonnie Jean. 



CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. 14L 

And now she works her mammie's wark, 
And aye she sighs wi' care and pain ; 

Yet wistna what her ail might be, 
Or what wad mak her weel again. 

But didna JeamVs heart loup light, 

And didna joy blink in her ee, 
As Robie tauld a tale o' love, 

Ae e'enin on the lily lea ? 

The sun was sinking in the west, 
The birds sang sweet in ilka grove ; 

His cheek to her's he fondly prest, 
And whispered thus his tale o' love : 

O Jeanie fair, I lo'e thee dear ; 

O canst thou think to fancy me? 
Or wilt thou leave thy mammie's cot, 

And learn to tent the farms wi' me? 

At barn or byre thou shaltna drudge, 

Or naething else to trouble thee ; 
But stray amang the heather-bells, 

And tent the waving corn wi' me. 

Now what could artless Jeanie do ? 

She had nae will to say him na : 
At length she blush' d a sweet consent, 

And love was aye between them twa. 



142 burns' songs, 

CXLV. 

CALEDONIA. 

Tune — Caledonian Hunt's Delight. 

There was once a day, but old Time then was young, 

That brave Caledonia, the chief of her line, 
From some of your northern deities sprung : 

(Who knows not that brave Caledonia's divine ?) 
From Tweed to the Orcades was her domain, 

To hunt, or to pasture, or do what she would : 
Her heavenly relations there fixed her reign, 

And pledged her their godheads to warrant it good. 

A lambkin in peace, but a lion in war, 

The pride of her kindred the heroine grew ; 
Her grandsire, old Odin, triumphantly swore, — 

" Whoe'er shall provoke thee, th' encounter shall 
rue!" 
With tillage or pasture at times she would sport, 

To feed her fair flocks by her green rustling corn ; 
But chiefly the woods were her favourite resort, 

Her darling amusement, the hounds and the horn. 

Long quiet she reign'd ; till thitherward steers 

A flight of bold eagles from Adrians strand ; 
Repeated, successive, for many long years, 

They darken'd the air, and they plundered the land : 
Their pounces were murder, and terror their cry, 

They'd conquer'd and ruin'd a world beside ; 
She took to her hills, and her arrows let fly, 

The daring invaders they fled or they died. 



CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. 143 

The fell Harpy-raven took wing from the north, 

The scourge of the seas, and the dread of the shore : 
The wild Scandinavian boar issued forth 

To wanton in carnage and wallow in gore : 
O'er countries and kingdoms their fury prevailed, 

No arts could appease them, no arms could repel ; 
But brave Caledonia in vain they assail'd, 

As Largs well can witness, and Loncartie tell. 

The Cameleon-savage disturb'd her repose, 

With tumult, disquiet, rebellion, and strife ; 
Provoked beyond bearing, at last she arose, 

And robb'd him at once of his hopes and his life : 
The Anglian lion, the terror of France, 

Oft prowling, ensanguin'd the Tweed's silver flood ; 
But, taught by the bright Caledonian lance, 

He learned to fear in his own native wood. 

Thus bold, independent, unconquer'd, and free, 

Her bright course of glory for ever shall run : 
For brave Caledonia immortal must be ; 

I'll prove it from Euclid as clear as the sun : 
Rectangle-triangle, the figure we'll choose, 

The upright is Chance, and old Time is the base ; 
But brave Caledonia's the hypothenuse ; 

Then ergo, she'll match them, and match them 
always. 



144 burns' songs, 

CXLVI. 

AULD ROB MORRIS. 

There's auld Rob Morris that wons in yon glen, 
He's the king o' guid fellows and wale of auld men ; 
He has gowd in his coffers, he has owsen and kine, 
And ae bonnie lassie, his darling and mine. 

She's fresh as the morning, the fairest in May ; 
She's sweet as the ev'ning amang the new hay ; 
As blithe and as artless as the lamb on the lea, 
And dear to my heart as the light to my ee. 

But oh ! she's an heiress, auld Robin's a laird, 
And my daddie has nought but a cot-house and yard ; 
A wooer like me maunna hope to come speed, 
The wounds I must hide that will soon be my dead. 

The day comes to me, but delight brings me nane ; 
The night comes to me, but my rest it is gane : 
I wander my lane like a night- troubled ghaist, 
And I sigh as my heart it wad burst in my breast. 

O, had she but been of lower degree, 
I then might hae hop'd she wad smil'd upon me ! 
O, how past describing had then been my bliss, 
As now my distraction no words can express ! 



CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. 145 

CXLVII. 
GALLA WATER. 

There's braw braw lads on Yarrow braes, 
That wander thro' the blooming heather ; 

But Yarrow braes nor Ettric shaws, 
Can match the lads o' Galla water. 

But there is ane, a secret ane, 

Aboon them a' I lo'e him better ; 
And I'll be his, and he'll be mine, 

The bonnie lad o' Galla water. 

Altho' his daddie was nae laird, 

And tho' I hae nae meikle tocher ; 
Yet rich in kindest, truest love, 

Well tent our flocks by Galla water. 

It ne'er was wealth, it ne'er was wealth, 
That coft contentment, peace, or pleasure ; 

The bands and bliss o' mutual love, 
O that's the chiefest warld's treasure ! 



CXLVIII. 
THERE'S A YOUTH IN THIS CITY. 

Tune — Neil Gow's Lament, 
The first half-stanza of this Song is old; the rest is mine. B. 

There's a youth in this city, it were a great pity 
That he from our lasses should wander awa ; 

For he's bonnie and braw, weel favour'd witha', 
And his hair has a natural buckle and a'. 

H 



14G burns' songs, 

His coat is the hue of his bonnet sae blue ; 

His fecket is white as the new-driven snaw ; 
His hose they are blae, and his shoon like the slue, 

And his clear siller buckles they dazzle us a'. 
His coat is the hue, &c. 

For beauty and fortune the laddie's been courtin ; 

Weel-featur'd, weel-tocher'd, weel-mounted and 
braw; 
But chiefly the siller, that gars him gang till her, 

The penny's the jewel that beautifies a'. 
There's Meg wi' the mailen, that fain wad a haen him, 

And Susy whase daddy was Laird o' the ha' ; 
There's lang-tocher'd Nancy maist fetters his fancy, 

— But the laddie's dear sel he lo'es dearest of a'. 



CXLIX. 

FRAGMENT. 

TUNE — Dainty Davie. 

There was a lad was born at Kyle 3 
But what'n a day o' whaf n a style 
I doubt it's hardly worth the while 
To be sae nice wi' Robin 9 . 

Robin was a rovin 9 Boy, 

Rantin 9 rovin 9 , rantin' rovin 9 ; 

Robin was a rovin' Roy y 
Rantin 9 rovin 9 Robin. 

1 Kyle— a district of Ayrshire. 



CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. 147 

Our monarch's hindmost year but ane 
Was five-and-twenty days begun, 
'Twas then a blast o' Janwar win' 
Blew hansel in on Robin, 

The gossip keekit in his loof, 
Quo' scho wha lives will see the proof, 
This waly boy will be nae coof, 
I think well ca' him Robin. 

He'll hae mifortunes great and sma', 
But aye a heart aboon them a' ; 
He'll be a credit to us a', 
We'll a' be proud o' Robin. 

But sure as three times three mak nine, 
I see by ilka score and line, 
This chap will dearly like our kin', 
So leeze me on thee, Robin. 

Guid faith, quo' scho, I doubt you, Sir, 
Ye gar the lasses * * * * 
But twenty fauts ye may hae waur, 
So blessings on thee, Robin ! 

Robin was a ravin 9 Roy, 

Rantin 1 rovin\ rantin 7 rovin; 
Robin was a rovin' Boy, 

Rantin 9 rovin' Robin. 



li 2 



148 burns' songs, 

CL. 

STRATHALLAN'S LAMENT. 

Thickest night, o'erhang my dwelling! 

Howling tempests, o'er me rave ! 
Turbid torrents, wintry swelling, 

Still surround my lonely cave ! 

Crystal streamlets gently flowing, 
Busy haunts of base mankind, 

Western breezes softly blowing, 
Suit not my distracted mind. 

In the cause of right engag'd, 
Wrongs injurious to redress, 

Honour's war we strongly wag'd, 
But the heavens deny'd success. 

Ruin's wheel has driven o'er us, 
Not a hope that dare attend ; 

The wide world is all before us — 
But a world without a friend ! 



CLI. 

Tune— The Quaker s Wife. 

Thine am I, my faithful fair, 
Thine, my lovely Nancy ; 

Ev'ry pulse along my veins, 
Ev'ry roving fancy. 



CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. 149 

To thy bosom lay my heart, 

There to throb and languish : 
Tho' despair had wrung its core, 

That would heal its anguish. 

Take away these rosy lips, 

Rich with balmy treasure : 
Turn away thine eyes of love, 

Lest I die with pleasure. 

What is life when wanting love ? 

Night without a morning : 
Love's the cloudless summer sun, 

Nature gay adorning. 



CLII. 



Tho' cruel fate should bid us part, 

As far's the pole and line ; 
Her dear idea round my heart 

Should tenderly entwine. 

Tho' mountains frown and deserts howl, 

And oceans roar between ; 
Yet, dearer than my deathless soul, 

I still would love my Jean. 



150 burns' songs, 

CLIII. 

Tune — Fee him, Father. 

Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, Thou hast left me ever, 
Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, Thou hast left me ever. 
Aften hast thou vow'd that death only should us sever. 
Now thou'st left thy lass for aye — I maun see thee 
never, Jamie, 
I'll see thee never. 

Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie, Thou hast me forsaken, 
Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie, Thou hast me forsaken. 
Thou canst love anither jo, while my heart is breaking. 
Soon my weary een 111 close — never mair to waken, 
Jamie, 
Ne'er mair to waken. 



CLIV. 

FRAGMENT. 

To thee, lov'd Nith, thy gladsome plains, 
Where late wi' careless thought I rang'd, 

Though prest wi' care and sunk in woe, 
To thee I bring a heart unchang'd. 

I love thee, Nith, thy banks and braes, 
Tho' mem'ry there my bosom tear ; 

For there he rov'd that brake my heart, 
Yet to that heart, ah, still how dear ! 



CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. 151 

CLV. 
JESSIE. 

TUNE — Bonnie Dundee, 

True hearted was he, the sad swain o' the Yarrow, 

And fair are the maids on the banks o' the Ayr, 
But by the sweet side o' the Nith's winding river, 

Are lovers as faithful, and maidens as fair : 
To equal young Jessie seek Scotland all over ; 

To equal young Jessie you seek it in vain ; 
Grace, beauty, and elegance, fetter her lover, 

And maidenly modesty fixes the chain. 

O, fresh is the rose in the gay, dewy morning, 

And sweet is the lily at evening close ; 
But in the fair presence o' lovely young Jessie, 

Unseen is the lily, unheeded the rose. 
Love sits in her smile, a wizard ensnaring ; 

Enthron'd in her een he delivers his law : 
And still to her charms she alone is a stranger ! 

Her modest demeanour's the jewel of a\ 



152 burns' songs, 

CLVI. 

THE LASS O' BALLOCHMYLE. 

? Twas even — the dewy fields were green, 

On every blade the pearls hang; 
The Zephyr wanton'd round the bean, 

And bore its fragrant sweets alang: 
In every glen the mavis sang, 

All nature listening seem'd the while, 
Except where green-wood echoes rang, 

Amang the braes o' Ballochmyle. 

With careless step I onward stray'd, 

My heart rejoic'd in nature's joy, 
When musing in a lonely glade, 

A maiden fair I chanc'd to spy ; 
Her look was like the morning's eye, 

Her air like nature's vernal smile, 
Perfection whisper'd passing by, 

Behold the lass o' Ballochmyle ! 

Fair is the morn in flowery May, 

And sweet is night in Autumn mild; 
When roving thro' the garden gay, 

Or wandering in a lonely wild : 
But woman, nature's darling child ! 

There all her charms she does compile ; 
Ev'n there her other works are foil'd 

By the bonny lass o* Ballochmyle. 



CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. 153 

O, had she been a country maid, 

And I the happy country swain, 
Tho* shelter' d in the lowest shed 

That ever rose in Scotland's plain ! 
Thro' weary winter's wind and rain, 

With joy, with rapture, I would toil ; 
And nightly to my bosom strain 

The bonny lass o' Ballochmyle. 

Then pride might climb the slipp'ry steep, 

Where fame and honours lofty shine ; 
And thirst of gold might tempt the deep, 

Or downward seek the Indian mine ; 
Give me the cot below the pine, 

To tend the flocks or till the soil, 
And every day have joys divine, 

With the bonny lass o' Ballochmyle. 



CLVII. 

Tune — Laddie, lie near me. 

? Twasna her bonnie blue ee was my ruin; 
Fair tho' she be, that was ne'er my undoing; 
'Twas the dear smile when naebody did mind us, 
'Twas the bewitching, sweet, stown glance o' kindness. 

Sair do I fear that to hope is denied me, 
Sair do I fear that despair maun abide me ; 
But tho' fell fortune should fate us to sever, 
Queen shall she be in my bosom for ever. 

ii 3 



154 burns' songs, 

Mary, I'm thine wi' a passion sincerest, 
And thou hast plighted me love o' the dearest! 
And thou'rt the angel that never can alter, 
Sooner the sun in his motion would falter. 



CLVIII. 
FAIR ELIZA. 

A GAELIC AIR. 
TUNE — The bonnie brucket Lassie. 

Turn again, thou fair Eliza, 

Ae kind blink before we part, 
Rew on thy despairing lover ! 

Canst thou break his faithfu' heart? 
Turn again, thou fair Eliza ; 

If to love thy heart denies, 
For pity hide the cruel sentence 

Under friendship's kind disguise ! 

Thee, dear maid, hae I offended ? 

The offence is loving thee ; 
Canst thou wreck his peace for ever, 

Wha for thine wad gladly die ? 
While the life beats in my bosom, 

Thou shalt mix in ilka throe : 
Turn again, thou lovely maiden, 

Ae sweet smile on me bestow. 



CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. 155 

Not the bee upon the blossom, 

In the pride o' sunny noon ; 
Not the little sporting fairy, 

All beneath the simmer moon ; 
Not the poet in the moment 

Fancy lightens in his ee, 
Kens the pleasure, feels the rapture, 

That thy presence gies to me. 



CLIX. 



UP IN THE MORNING EARLY. 

The chorus of this is old; the two stanzas are mine. B. 

Up in the morning's no for me, 

Up in the morning early ; 
When a' the hills are cover d wi' maw, 

Tm sure it's winter fairly \ 

Cauld blaws the wind frae east to west, 

The drift is driving sairly ; 
Sae loud and shrill's I hear the blast, 

I'm sure it's winter fairly. 

The birds sit chittering in the thorn, 

A' day they fare but sparely ; 
And lang's the night frae e'en to morn, 

I'm sure it's winter fairly. 

Up in the motmng, W'. 



156 BURNS' SONGS, 

CLX. 
WAE IS MY HEART. 

Wae is my heart, and the tear's in my ee ; 
Lang, lang joy's been a stranger to me : 
Forsaken and friendless my burden I bear, 
And the sweet voice o' pity ne'er sounds in my ear. 

Love, thou hast pleasures ; and deep hae I loved ; 
Love, thou hast sorrows ; and sair hae I proved : 
But this bruised heart that now bleeds in my breast, 
I can feel by its throbbings will soon be at rest. 

O if I were where happy I hae been ; 
Down by yon stream and yon bonnie castle green ; 
For there he is wand'ring and musing on me, 
Wha wad soon dry the tear frae his Phillis's ee. 



CLXI. 



WHA IS THAT AT MY BOWER DOOR? 

Wha is that at my bower door? 

O wha is it but Findlay ; 
Then gae your gate, ye'se nae be here ! 

Indeed maun I, quo' Findlay. 
What mak ye sae like a thief? 

O come and see, quo' Findlay ; 
Before the morn ye'll work mischief; 

Indeed will I, quo' Findlay. 



CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. 157 

Gif I rise and let you in ; 

Let me in, quo' Findlay ; 
Ye'll keep me waukin wi' your din ; 

Indeed will I, quo' Findlay. 
In my bower if ye should stay ; 

Let me stay, quo' Findlay; 
I fear ye'll bide till break o' day ; 

Indeed will I, quo' Findlay. 

Here this night if ye remain ; 

Fll remain, quo* Findlay; 
I dread ye'll learn the gate again; 

Indeed will I, quo' Findlay. 
What may pass within this bower — 

Let it pass, quo' Findlay ; 
Ye maun conceal till your last hour ; 

Indeed will I, quo* Findlay. 



CLXII. 



WHAT CAN A YOUNG LASSIE DO WI' AN AULD 

MAN? 

Tune — What can a lassie do. 

What can a young lassie, what shall a young lassie, 
What can a young lassie do wi' an auld man ? 

Bad luck on the penny that tempted my minnie 
To sell her poor Jenny for siller an* Ian' ! 
Bad luck on the penny, &c. 

He's always compleenin frae mornin to e'enin, 
He hosts and he hirples the weary day laug : 

He's doylt and he's dozin, liis bluid it is frozen, 
O, dreary's the night wi' a crazy auld man ! 



158 BURNS' SONGS, 

He hums and he hankers, he frets and he cankers, 
I never can please him do a' that I can ; 

He's peevish and jealous of a' the young fellows : 
O, dool on the day I met wi' an auld man ! 

My auld auntie Katie upon me takes pity, 
I'll do my endeavour to follow her plan ; 

I'll cross him, and rack him, until I heart-break him, 
And then his auld brass will buy me a new pan. 



CLXIII. 

FRAGMENT. 

Tune — J had a horse and I had nae mair. 

When first I came to Stewart Kyle, 

My mind it wasna steady, 
Where'er I gaed, where'er I rade, 

A mistress still I had aye : 

But when I came roun' by Mauchline town, 

Not dreadin' ony body, 
My heart was caught before I thought, 

And by a Mauchline lady. 



TM11 




What can a yorung las he, what shall a you; . 
olcl man .' 



Son^s. p i58 



.101 1 \ 

A.ITG.1.182 t . 



CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. 159 

CLXIV. 
THE LEA RIG. 

When o'er the hill the eastern star 

Tells bughtin-time is near, my jo ; 
And owsen frae the furrow'd field, 

Return sae dowf and wearie O ; 
Down by the burn, where scented birks 

Wi' dew are hanging clear, my jo, 
I'll meet thee on the lea-rig, 

My ain kind dearie O. 

In mirkest glen, at midnight hour, 

I'd rove, and ne'er be eerie O, 
If thro' that glen I gaed to thee, 

My ain kind dearie O. 
Altho' the night were ne'er sae wild, 

And I were ne'er sae wearie O, 
I'd meet thee on the lea-rig, 

My ain kind dearie O. 

The hunter lo'es the morning sun, 

To rouse the mountain deer, my jo ; 
At noon the fisher seeks the glen, 

Along the burn to steer, my jo ; 
Gie me the hour o' gloamin grey, 

It maks my heart sae cheery O, 
To meet thee on the lea-rig, 

My ain kind dearie O. 



160 burns' songs, 



CLXV. 



WHEN WILD WAR'S DEADLY BLAST WAS 
BLAWN. 

Tune— The Mill Mill 0. 

When wild war's deadly blast was blawn, 

And gentle peace returning, 
Wi' mony a sweet babe fatherless, 

And mony a widow mourning. 
I left the lines and tented field, 

Where lang I'd been a lodger, 
My humble knapsack a' my wealth, 

A poor and honest sodger. 

A leal, light heart was in my breast, 

My hand unstain'd wi' plunder; 
And for fair Scotia hame again, 

I cheery on did wander, 
I thought upon the banks o' Coil, 

I thought upon my Nancy, 
I thought upon the witching smile 

That caught my youthful fancy. 

At length I reach'd the bonnie glen, 

Where early life I sported ; 
I pass'd the mill, and try sting thorn, 

Where Nancy aft I courted : 
Wha spied I but my ain dear maid, 

Down by her mother's dwelling ! 
And turn'd me round to hide the flood 

That in my een was swelling. 



CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. 1G1 

WY alter'd voice, quoth I, sweet lass, 
Sweet as yon hawthorn's blossom, 

! happy, happy may he be, 
That's dearest to thy bosom ! 

My purse is light, I've far to gang, 

And fain wad be thy lodger ; 
IVe serv'd my king and country lang, 

Take pity on a sodger. 

Sae wistfully she gaz'd on me, 

And lovelier was than ever : 
Quo' she, a sodger ance I loe'd, 

Forget him shall I never : 
Our humble cot, and hamely fare, 

Ye freely shall partake it, 
That gallant badge, the dear cockade, 

Ye're welcome for the sake o't. 

She gaz'd — she redden' d like a rose — 

Syne pale like ony lily ; 
She sank within my arms, and cried, 

Art thou my ain dear Willie ? 
By him who made yon sun and sky,. 

By whom true love's regarded, 

1 am the man ; and thus may still 
True lovers be rewarded. 

The wars are o'er, and I'm come hame. 

And find thee still true-hearted ; 
Tho' poor in gear, we're rich in love, 

And mair we'se ne'er be parted. 
Quo' she, my grandsire left me gowd, 

A mailen plenish'd fairly; 
And come, my faithful sodger lad, 

Thou'rt welcome to it dearlv ! 



162 burns' songs, 

For gold the merchant ploughs the main, 

The farmer ploughs the manor ; 
But glory is the sodger's prize ; 

The sodger's wealth is honour ; 
The brave poor sodger ne'er despise, 

Nor count him as a stranger, 
Remember he's his country's stay 

In day and hour of danger. 



CLXVI. 

FAIR JENNY. 
TUNERS aw ye my Father. 

Where are the joys I have met in the morning, 
That danc'd to the lark's early song ? 

Where is the peace that awaited my wand'ring, 
At evening the wild-woods among? 

No more a winding the course of yon river, 
And marking sweet flowrets so fair ? 

No more I trace the light footsteps of pleasure, 
But sorrow and sad-sighing care. 

Is it that summer's forsaken our valleys, 

And grim, surly winter is near? 
No, no, the bees humming round the gay roses, 

Proclaim it the pride of the year. 

Fain would I hide, what I fear to discover, 
Yet long, long too well have I known : 

All that has caused this wreck in my bosom, 
Is Jenny, fair Jenny alone. 



CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. 163 

Time cannot aid me, my griefs are immortal, 

Nor hope dare a comfort bestow: 
Come then, enamour'd and fond of my anguish, 

Enjoyment I'll seek in my woe. 



cLxyn. 

WHERE BRAVING ANGRY WINTER'S STORMS. 

Tune — N. Gow's Lamentation for Abercairny. 

Where braving angry winter's storms, 

The lofty Ochels rise, 
Far in their shade my Peggy's charms 

First blest my wondering eyes. 
As one who, by some savage stream, 

A lonely gem surveys, 
Astonished, doubly marks its beam 

With art's most polish'd blaze. 

Blest be the wild, sequester'd shade, 

And blest the day and hour, 
Where Peggy's charms I first survey 'd, 

When first I felt their pow'r ! 
The tyrant death with grim control 

May seize my fleeting breath ; 
But tearing Peggy from my soul 

Must be a stronger death. 



164 BURNS' SONGS, 

CLXVIII. 

THE GALLANT WEAVER. 

Tune — The auld wife ayont the fire. 

Where Cart rins rowin to the sea, 
By mony a flow'r and spreading tree, 
There lives a lad, the lad for me, 
He is a gallant weaver. 

Oh I had wooers aught or nine, 
They gied me rings and ribbons fine ; 
And I was fear'd my heart would tine, 
And I gied it to the weaver. 

My daddie sign'd my tocher-band, 
To gie the lad that has the land, 
But to my heart I'll add my hand, 
And gie it to the weaver. 

While birds rejoice in leafy bowers ; 
While bees delight in opening flowers ; 
While corn grows green in simmer showers, 
111 love my gallant weaver. 



CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. 165 



CLXIX. 



PHILLIS THE FAIR. 

Tune — Robin Adair. 

While larks with little wing 

Fann'd the pure air, 
Tasting the breathing spring, 

Forth I did fare : 
Gay the sun's golden eye 
Peep'd o'er the mountains high ; 
Such thy morn ! did I cry, 

Phillis the fair. 

In each bird's careless song 

Glad did I share ; 
While yon wild flowers among, 

Chance led me there : 
Sweet to the opening day, 
Rosebuds bent the dewy spray; 
Such thy bloom ! did I say, 

Phillis the fair. 

Down in a shady walk, 

Doves cooing were, 
I mark'd the cruel hawk 

Caught in a snare : 
So kind may Fortune be, 
Such make his destiny, 
He who would injure thee, 

Phillis the fair. 



166 BURNS' songs, 

CLXX. 
FRAGMENT. 

TUNE — The Caledonian Hunt's Delight. 

Why, why tell thy lover, 
Bliss he never must enjoy? 

Why, why undeceive him, 
And give all his hopes the lie ? 

O why, while fancy, raptured, slumbers, 
Chloris, Chloris all the theme ! 

Why, why wouldst thou cruel 
Wake thy lover from his dream ? 



CLXXI. 

SIC A WIFE AS WILLIE HAD. 

TUNE — Tibbie Fowler in the Glen. 

Willie Wastle dwalt on Tweed, 
The spot they ca'd it Linkumdoddie, 

Willie was a wabster guid, 

Cou'd stown a clue wi' ony bodie ; 

He had a wife was dour and din. 
O Tinkler Madgie was her mither; 

Sic a wife as Willie had, 

I wadna gie a butt on j or her. 



CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. 167 

She has an ee, she has but ane, 

The cat has twa the very colour ; 
Five rusty teeth, forbye a stump, 

A clapper tongue wad deave a miller ; 
A whiskin beard about her mou, 

Her nose and chin they threaten ither ; 
Sic a wife, fyc. 

She's bow-hough'd, she's hein shinn'd, 
Ae limpin leg a hand-breed shorter ; 

She's twisted right, she's twisted left, 
To balance fair in ilka quarter : 

She has a hump upon her breast, 
The twin o' that upon her shouther ; 
Sic a wife, fyc. 

Auld baudrans by the ingle sits, 
An* wi' her loof her face a-washin : 

But Willie's wife is nae sae trig, 

She dights her grunzie wi' a hushion ; 

Her walie nieves like midden-creels, 
Her face wad fyle the Logan-water ; 

Sic a wife as Willie had, 
I wadna gie a button for her. 



lGtf burns' songs, 

CLXXII. 

TO MARY. 

TUNE — Ewe bughts, Marion. 

Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, 
And leave auld Scotia's shore ? 

Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, 
Across th Atlantic's roar? 

sweet grows the lime and the orange, 
And the apple on the pine ; 

But a' the charms o' the Indies 
Can never equal thine. 

1 hae sworn by the Heavens to my Mary, 
I hae sworn by the Heavens to be true ; 

And sae may the Heavens forget me, 
When I forget my vow ! 

O plight me your faith, my Mary, 
And plight me your lily-white hand; 

O plight me your faith, my Mary, 
Before I leave Scotia's strand. 

We hae plighted our troth, my Mary, 

In mutual affection to join, 
And curst be the cause that shall part us ! 

The hour, and the moment o f time ! 



CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. 169 

CLXXIII. 
WILT THOU BE MY DEARIE ? 

Tune— The Sutor's Dochter. 

Wilt thou be my dearie? 

When sorrow wrings thy gentle heart, 

Wilt thou let me cheer thee ? 

By the treasure of my soul, 

That's the love I bear thee ! 

I swear and vow that only thou 

Shall ever be my dearie. 

Only thou, I swear and vow, 

Shall ever be my dearie. 

Lassie, say thou lo'es me ; 
Or if thou wiltna be my ain, 
Sayna thou'lt refuse me : 
If it winna, canna be, 
Thou for thine may choose me, 
Let me, lassie, quickly die, 
Trusting that thou lo'es me. 
Lassie, let me quickly die, 
Trusting that thou lo'es me. 



170 BURNS' SONGS, 

CLXXIV. 

HIGHLAND MARY. 

TUNE — Katharine Ogie. 

Ye banks, and braes, and streams around 

The castle o 7 Montgomery, 
Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, 

Your waters never drumlie ! 
There simmer first unfald her robes, 

And there the langest tarry ; 
For there I took the last fareweel 

O' my sweet Highland Mary. 

How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk, 

How rich the hawthorn's blossom, 
As underneath their fragrant shade, 

I clasp'd her to my bosom ! 
The golden hours, on angel wings, 

Flew o'er me and my dearie ; 
For dear to me, as light and life, 

Was my sweet Highland Mary. 

Wi' mony a vow, and locked embrace, 

Our parting was fu' tender ; 
And, pledging aft to meet again, 

We tore oursels asunder ; 
But Oh ! fell death's untimely frost, 

That nipt my flower sae early ! 
Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay, 

That wraps my Highland Mary ! 



CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. 171 

O pale, pale now, those rosy lips, 

I aft hae kiss'd sae fondly ! 
And closed for aye the sparkling glance, 

That dwelt on me sae kindly ! 
And mouldering now in silent dust, 

That heart that loe'd me dearly ! 
But still within my bosom's core, 

Shall live my Highland Mary. 



CLXXV. 

THE BANKS O' DOON. 

TUNE— The Caledonian Hunt's Delight. 

Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon, 

How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair ! 
How can ye chant, ye little birds, 

And I sae weary, fu' o' care ! 
Thou'lt break my heart, thou warbling bird, 

That wantons thro' the flowering thorn : 
Thou minds me o' departed joys, 

Departed, never to return. 

Aft hae I rov'd by bonnie Doon, 

To see the rose and woodbine twine ; 
And ilka bird sang o' its luve, 

And fondly sae did I o' mine. 
Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, 

Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree ; 
And my fause luver stole my rose, 

But ah! he left the thorn wi' me. 
i 2 



172 BURNS' songs, 



CLXXVI. 



BEWARE 0' BONNIE ANN. 

Ye gallants bright, I red you right, 

Beware o' bonnie Ann ; 
Her comely face sae fu' o' grace, 

Your heart she will trepan. 
Her een sae bright, like stars by night, 

Her skin is like the swan; 
Sae jimpy lac'd her genty waist, 

That sweetly ye might span. 

Youth, grace, and love, attendant move, 

And pleasure leads the van ; 
In a ? their charms, and conquering arms, 

They wait on bonnie Ann. 
The captive bands may chain the hands, 

But love enslaves the man ; 
Ye gallants braw, I red you a', 

Beware o' bonnie Ann. 



CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. 173 

CLXXVII. 

Tune — Banks of Banna. 

Yestreen I had a pint o' wine, 

A place where body saw na' ; 
Yestreen lay on this breast o' mine 

The gowden locks of Anna. 
The hungry Jew in wilderness 

Rejoicing o'er his manna, 
Was nae thing to my hinny bliss 

Upon the lips of Anna. 

Ye monarchs, tak the east and west, 

Frae Indus to Savannah ! 
Gie me within my straining grasp 

The melting form of Anna. 
There I'll despise imperial charms, 

An Empress or Sultana, 
While dying raptures in her arms 

I give and take with Anna ! 

Awa, thou flaunting god o' day ! 

Awa, thou pale Diana ! 
Ilk star gae hide thy twinkling ray 

When Fm to meet my Anna. 
Come, in thy raven plumage, night, 

Sun, moon, and stars withdrawn a' ; 
And bring an angel pen to write 

My transports wi' my Anna. 



174 burns' songs, 

CLXXVIII. 

YON WILD MOSSY MOUNTAINS. 

Yon wild mossy mountains sae lofty and wide, 
That nurse in their bosom the youth o' the Clyde, 
Where the grouse lead their coveys thro' the heather 

to feed, 
And the shepherd tents his flock as he pipes on his reed : 
Where the grouse, &c. 

Not Cowrie's rich valley, nor Forth's sunny shores, 
To me hae the charms o' yon wild, mossy moors ; 
For there, by a lanely, sequestered clear stream, 
Resides a sweet lassie, my thought and my dream. 

Amang thae wild mountains shall still be my path, 
Ilk stream foaming down its ain green narrow strath ; 
For there, wi' my lassie, the day lang I rove, 
While o'er us unheeded, fly the swift hours o' love. 

She is not the fairest, altho' she is fair ; 
O' nice education but sma' is her share; 
Her parentage humble as humble can be ; 
But I lo'e the dear lassie because she lo'es me. 

To beauty what man but maun yield him a prize, 
In her armour of glances, and blushes, and sighs ! 
And when wit and refinement hae polish'd her darts, 
They dazzle our een, as they fly to our hearts. 

But kindness, sweet kindness, in the fond sparkling ee, 
Has lustre outshining the diamond to me ; 
And the heart-beating love, as I'm clasp 'd in her arms, 
O, these are my lassie's all-conquering charms ! 



CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. 17-> 

CLXXIX. 

YOUNG JOCKEY. 

Young Jockey was the blithest lad 

In a' our town or here awa ; 
Fu' blithe he whistled at the gaud, 

Fu' lightly danc'd he in the ha' ! 
He roos'd my een sae bonnie blue, 

He roos'd ray waist sae genty sma' ; 
An' aye my heart came to my mou, 

When ne'er a body heard or saw. 

My Jockey toils upon the plain, 

Thro' wind and weet, thro' frost and snaw ; 
And o'er the lee I leuk fV faio, 

When Jockey's ousen hameward ca\ 
An' aye the night comes round again, 

When in his arms he taks me a' ; 
An' aye he vows he'll be my ain 

As lang's he has a breath to draw. 



176 burns' songs, 

CLXXX. 

YOUNG PEGGY. 

Tune — Last time I cam o'er the muir. 

This was one of the Poet's earliest compositions. It is copied from a 
MS. book which he had before his first publication. 

Young Peggy blooms our bonniest lass, 

Her blush is like the morning, 
The rosy dawn, the springing grass, 

With early gems adorning, 
Her eyes outshine the radiant beams 

That gild the passing shower, 
And glitter o'er the crystal streams, 

And cheer each fresh'ning flower. 

Her lips more than the cherries bright, 

A richer dye has grac'd them, 
They charm th' admiring gazer's sight, 

And sweetly tempt to taste them : 
Her smile is as the ev'ning mild, 

When feather'd pairs are courting, 
And little lambkins wanton wild, 

In playful bands disporting. 

Were Fortune lovely Peggy's foe, 

Such sweetness would relent her, 
As blooming Spring unbends the brow 

Of surly, savage Winter. 
Detraction's eye no aim can gain 

Her winning powers to lessen ; 
And fretful envy grins in vain, 

The poison'd tooth to fasten. 



CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. 177 

Ye Pow'rs of Honour, Love, and Truth, 

From ev'ry ill defend her ; 
Inspire the highly favour 'd youth 

The destinies intend her ; 
Still fan the sweet connubial flame 

Responsive in each bosom ; 
And bless the dear parental name 

With many a filial blossom. 



CLXXXI. 

TO A 

YOUNG LADY, WITH A PRESENT OF SONGS. 

Here, where the Scottish muse immortal lives, 
In sacred strains and tuneful numbers join'd, 

Accept the gift; tho' humble he who gives, 
Rich is the tribute of the grateful mind. 

So may no ruffian feeling in thy breast 
Discordant jar thy bosom chords among : 

But peace attune thy gentle soul to rest, 
Or love ecstatic wake his seraph song. 

Or pity's notes, in luxury of tears, 

As modest want the tale of woe reveals, 

While conscious virtue all the strain endears, 
And heaven-born piety her sanction seals. 



l 3 



POSTHUMOUS POEMS, 

FROM THE 

©ontfgponfcence of 3$urng ; 

WJTH 

ADDITIONAL PIECES. 



POSTHUMOUS POEMS, 



FROM THE 



AUTHOR'S CORRESPONDENCE. 



TO MARY IN HEAVEN. 

Thou lingering star, with less'ning ray, 
That lov'st to greet the early morn, 

Again thou usher 'st in the day, 
My Mary from my soul was torn. 

O Mary ! dear departed shade ! 

Where is thy place of blissful rest? 
Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ? 

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? 

That sacred hour can I forget? 

Can I forget the hallo w'd grove, 
Where by the winding Ayr we met, 

To live one day of parting love? 

Eternity will not efface 

Those records dear of transports past; 
Thy image at our last embrace ; 

Ah! little thought we 'twas our last! 



182 POSTHUMOUS POEMS. 

Ayr gurgling kiss'd his pebbled shore, 

O'erhung with wild woods, thick'ning green ; 

The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar, 
Twin'd am'rous round the raptur'd scene. 

The flowers sprang wanton to be prest, 
The birds sang love on every spray, 

Till too, too soon, the glowing west 
Proclaimed the speed of winged day. 

Still o'er these scenes my mem'ry wakes, 
And fondly broods with miser care ! 

Time but the impression deeper makes, 
As streams their channels deeper wear. 

My Mary, dear departed shade ! 

Where is thy blissful place of rest ? 
Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ? 

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast ? 



POSTHUMOUS POEMS. 183 

LINES 

ON AN INTERVIEW WITH LORD DAER. 

This wot ye all whom it concerns, 
I Rhymer Robin, alias Burns, 

October twenty third, 
A ne'er to be forgotten day, 
Sae far I spreckled up the brae, 

I dinner'd wi' a Lord. 

I've been at druken writers' feasts, 
Nay, been bitch-fou 'mang godly priests, 

Wi' rev'rence be it spoken ; 
I've even join'd the honour'd jorum, 
When mighty Squireships of the quorum 

Their hydra drouth did sloken. 

But wi' a Lord — stand out my shin, 
A Lord — a Peer — an Earl's son, 

Up higher yet my bonnet ; 
And sic a Lord — lang Scotch ells twa, 
Our peerage he o'erlooks them a', 

As I look o'er my sonnet. 

But oh for Hogarth's magic pow'r ! 
To shew Sir Bardy's willyart glowr, 

And how he star'd and stammer 'd, 
When goavan, as if led wi' branks, 
An' stumpin on his ploughman shanks, 

He in the parlour hammer'd. 



184 POSTHUMOUS POEMS. 



I sidling sheltered in a nook, 
An' at his Lordship steal't a look, 

Like some portentous omen ; 
Except good sense and social glee, 
An' (what surprised me) modesty, 

I marked nought uncommon. 

I watch'd the symptoms o' the Great, 
The gentle pride, the lordly state, 

The arrogant assuming ; 
The feint a pride, nae pride had he, 
Nor sauce, nor state that I could see, 

Mair than an honest ploughman. 

Then from his Lordship I shall learn, 
Henceforth to meet with unconcern 

One rank as weel's another ; 
Nae honest worthy man need care 
To meet with nohle youthful Daer, 

For he but meets a brother. 



POSTHUMOUS POEMS. 185 



ON A YOUNG LADY 

RESIDING ON THE BANKS OF THE SMALL RIVER 
DEVON, IN CLACKMANNANSHIRE, BUT WHOSE IN- 
FANT YEARS WERE SPENT IN AYRSHIRE, 



How pleasant the banks of the clear-winding Devon, 
With green-spreading bushes, and flowers blooming 
fair; 

But the bonniest flower on the banks of the Devon 
Was once a sweet bud on the braes of the Ayr. 

Mild be the sun on this sweet blushing flower, 
In the gay rosy morn as it bathes in the dew ! 

And gentle the fall of the soft vernal shower, 
That steals on the evening each leaf to renew, 

O, spare the dear blossom, ye orient breezes, 
With chill hoary wing as ye usher the dawn ! 

And far be thou distant, thou reptile that seizest 
The verdure and pride of the garden and lawn ! 

Let Bourbon exult in his gay gilded lilies, 

And England triumphant display her proud rose ; 

A fairer than either adorns the green valleys 
Where Devon, sweet Devon, meandering flows. 



186 POSTHUMOUS POEMS. 

ON THE 

DEATH OF A LAP-DOG, NAMED ECHO. 



In wood and wild ye warbling throng, 

Your heavy loss deplore ; 
Now half-extinct your powers of song, 

Sweet Echo is no more. 

Ye jarring screeching things around, 
Scream your discordant joys ; 

Now half your din of tuneless sound, 
With Echo silent lies. 



INSCRIPTION TO THE MEMORY OF 
FERGUSSON. 

Here lies Robert Fergusson, Poet, 
Born, September 5ih, 1751— Died, 16th October, 1774. 

No sculptured marble here, nor pompous lay, 
" No storied urn nor animated bust/' 

This simple stone directs pale Scotia's way 
To pour her sorrows o'er her poet's dust. 



POSTHUMOUS POEMS. 187 



THE CHEVALIER'S LAMENT. 



The small birds rejoice in the green leaves returning, 
The murmuring streamlet winds clear thro' the vale ; 

The hawthorn trees blow in the dews of the morning, 
And wild scatter' d cowslips bedeck the green dale : 

But what can give pleasure, or what can seem fair, 
While the lingering moments are number'd by care ? 
No flowers gaily springing, nor birds sweetly singing, 
Can soothe the sad bosom of joyless despair. 

The deed that I dar'd could it merit their malice, 
A king and a father to place on his throne ? 

His right are these hills, and his right are these valleys, 
Where the wild beasts find shelter, but I can find 



But 'tis not my sufferings thus wretched, forlorn, 
My brave gallant friends, 'tis your ruin I mourn : 
Your deeds prov'd so loyal in hot bloody trial, 
Alas ! can I make vou no sweeter return I 



188 POSTHUMOUS POEMS. 



EPISTLE TO R. GRAHAM, ESQ. 

When Nature her great master-piece designed, 
And fram'd her last, best work, the human mind, 
Her eye intent on all the mazy plan, 
She form'd of various parts the various man. 

Then first she calls the useful many forth ; 
Plain plodding industry, and sober worth : 
Thence peasants, farmers, native sons of earth, 
And merchandise' whole genus take their birth : 
Each prudent cit a warm existence finds, 
And all mechanics' many-apron'd kinds. 
Some other rarer sorts are wanted yet, 
The lead and buoy are needful to the net : 
The caput moxtuum of gross desires 
Makes a material for mere knights and squires ; 
The martial phosphorus is taught to flow, 
She kneads the lumpish philosophic dough, 
Then marks th' unyielding mass with grave designs, 
Law, physics, politics, and deep divines : 
Last, she sublimes th' Aurora of the poles, 
The flashing elements of female souls. 

The order'd system fair before her stood, 
Nature, well-pleas'd, pronounc'd it very good ; 
But ere she gave creating labour o'er, 
Half-jest, she try*d one curious labour more. 
Some spumy, fiery ignis fatuus matter ; 
Such as the slightest breath of air might scatter ; 
With arch alacrity and conscious glee 
(Nature may have her whim as well as we, 
Her Hogarth-art perhaps she meant to show it) 
She forms the thing, and christens it — a poet. 
Creature, tho' oft the prey of care and sorrow, 
When blest to-day unmindful of to-morrow. 



POSTHUMOUS POEMS. 189 

A being form'd t' amuse his graver friends, 
Admir'd and prais'd — and there the homage ends : 
A mortal quite unfit for Fortune's strife, 
Yet oft the sport of all the ills of life ; 
Prone to enjoy each pleasure riches give, 
Yet haply wanting wherewithal to live : 
Longing to wipe each tear, to heal each groan, 
Yet frequent all unheeded in his own. 

But honest Nature is not quite a Turk, 
She laugh'd at first, then felt for her poor work. 
Pitying the propless climber of mankind, 
She cast about a standard tree to find ; 
And, to support his helpless woodbine state, 
Attach'd him to the generous truly great, 
A title, and the only one I claim, 
To lay strong hold for help on bounteous Graham. 

Pity the tuneful muses' hapless train, 
Weak, timid landmen on Life's stormy main ! 
Their hearts no selfish stern absorbent stuff, 
That never gives — tho' humbly takes enough ; 
The little fate allows, they share as soon, 
Unlike sage, proverb'd, wisdom's hard wrung boon. 
The world were blest did bliss on them depend, 
Ah, that " the friendly e'er should want a friend !" 
Let prudence number o'er each sturdy son, 
Who life and wisdom at one race begun, 
Who feel by reason, and who give by rule, 
(Instinct's a brute, and sentiment a fool!) 
Who make poor will do wait upon / should — 
We own they're prudent, but who feels they're good? 
Ye wise ones, hence ! ye hurt the social eye ! 
God's image rudely etch'd on base alloy ! 
But come ye, who the godlike pleasure know, 
Heaven's attribute distinguished — to bestow ! 



190 POSTHUMOUS POEMS. 

Whose arms of love would grasp the human race : 

Come thou who giv'st with all a courtier's grace ; 

Friend of my life, true patron of my rhymes ! 

Prop of my dearest hopes for future times. 

Why shrinks my soul half blushing, half afraid, 

Backward, abash'd to ask thy friendly aid? 

I know my need, I know thy giving hand, 

I crave thy friendship at thy kind command ; 

But there are such who court the tuneful nine — 

Heavens ! should the branded character be mine ! 

Whose verse in manhood's pride sublimely flows, 

Yet vilest reptiles in their begging prose. 

Mark, how their lofty independent spirit 

Soars on the spurning wing of injur'd merit ! 

Seek not the proofs in private life to find ; 

Pity the best of words should be but wind ! 

So, to heaven's gates the lark's shrill song ascends, 

But grovelling on the earth the carol ends. 

In all the clamorous cry of starving want, 

They dun benevolence with shameless front ; 

Oblige them, patronize their tinsel lays, 

They persecute you all your future days ! 

Ere my poor soul such deep damnation stain, 

My horny fist assume the plough again ; 

The piebald jacket let me patch once more ; 

On eighteen-pence a week I've liv'd before. 

Though, thanks to Heaven, I dare even that last shift, 

I trust meantime my boon is in thy gift ; 

That plac'd by thee upon the wish'd-for height, 

Where, man and nature fairer in her sight, 

My muse may imp her wing for some sublimer flight ■ . 

1 This is our Poet's first epistle to Graham of Fintry. It is not equal 
to the second ; but it contains too much of the characteristic vigour of 
its author to be suppressed. A little more knowledge of natural history, 
or of chemistry, was wanted to enable him to execute the original con- 
ception correctly. 



POSTHUMOUS POEMS. 191 

FRAGMENT, 

INSCRIBED TO THE RIGHT HON. C. J. FOX. 

How wisdom and folly meet, mix, and unite; 
How virtue and vice blend their black and their white ; 
How genius, tV illustrious father of fiction, 
Confounds rule and law, reconciles contradiction — 
I sing : If these mortals, the critics, should bustle, 
I care not, not I, let the critics go whistle. 

But now for a Patron, whose name and whose glory 
At once may illustrate and honour my story. 

Thou first of our orators, first of our wits ; 
Yet whose parts and acquirements seem mere lucky 

hits; 
With knowledge so vast, and with judgment so strong, 
No man with the half of 'em e'er went far wrong ; 
With passions so potent, and fancies so bright, 
No man with the half of 'em e'er went quite right ; 
A sorry, poor misbegot son of the Muses, 
For using thy name offers fifty excuses. 

Good L — d, what is man ! for as simple he looks, 
Do but try to develop his hooks and his crooks ; 
With his depths and his shallows, his good and his evil, 
All in all he's a problem must puzzle the devil. 

On his one ruling passion sir Pope hugely labours, 
That, like th' old Hebrew walking-switch, eats up its 

neighbours : 
Mankind are his show-box — a friend, would you know 

him? 
Pull the string, ruling passion the picture will show him . 



192 POSTHUMOUS POEMS. 

What pity, in rearing so beauteous a system, 
One trifling particular, truth, should have miss'd him ; 
For, spite of his fine theoretic positions, 
Mankind is a science defies definitions. 

Some sort all our qualities each to its tribe, 
And think human nature they truly describe ; 
Have you found this, or t'other, there's more in the wind, 
As by one drunken fellow his comrades you'll find. 
But such is the flaw, or the depth of the plan, 
In the make of the wonderful creature, call'd Man, 
No two virtues, whatever relation they claim, 
Nor even two different shades of the same, 
Though like as was ever twin brother to brother, 
Possessing the one shall imply you've the other. 



TO DR, BLACKLOCK. 

Ellisland, 21st Oct. 1789. 

Wow, but your letter made me vauntie ! 
And are ye hale, and weel, and can tie ? 
I kenn'd it still your wee bit j auntie 

Wad bring ye to : 
Lord send you aye as weel's I want ye, 

And then yell do. 

The ill-thief blaw the Heron south ! 
And never drink be near his drouth ! 
He tald mysel by word o ? mouth, 

He'd tak my letter ; 
I lippen'd to the chiel in trouth, 

And bade nae better. 



POSTHUMOUS POEMS. 19:3 

But aiblins honest Master Heron 
Had at the time some dainty fair one, 
To ware his theologic care on, 

And holy study ; 
And tir'd o' sauls to waste his lear on, 

E'en tried the body J . 

But what d'ye think, my trusty tier, 
I'm turn'd a gauger — Peace be here ! 
Parnassian queens, I fear, I fear 

Ye'll now disdain me, 
And then my fifty pounds a year 

Will little gain me. 

Ye glaiket, gleesome, dainty damies, 
Wha by Castalia's wimplin streamies, 
Lowp, sing, and lave your pretty limbies, 

Ye ken, ye ken, 
That Strang necessity supreme is 

'Mang sons o' men. 

I hae a wife and twa wee laddies, 

They maun hae brose and brats o' duddies ; 

Ye ken yoursels my heart right proud is, 

I needna vaunt, 
But I'll sned besoms — thraw saugh woodies, 

Before they want. 

Lord help me thro' this warld o' care ! 
I'm weary sick o't late and air ! 
Not but I hae a richer share 

Than mony ithers ; 
But why should ae man better fare, 

And a' men brithers ? 

1 Mr. Heron, author of the History of Scotland, and of various other 
works. 



194 POSTHUMOUS POEMS. 

Come, Firm Resolve, tak thou the van, 
Thou stalk o' carl-hemp in man ! 
And let us mind, faint heart ne'er wan 

A lady fair ; 
Wha does the utmost that he can, 

Will whyles do mair. 

But to conclude my silly rhyme, 
(I'm scant o' verse, and scant o' time), 
To mak a happy fire-side clime 

To weans and wife, 
That's the true pathos and sublime 

Of human life. 

My compliments to sister Beckie ; 
And eke the same to honest Lucky, 
I wat she is a dainty chuckie 

As e'er tread clay ! 
And gratefully, my guid auld cockie, 

I'm yours for aye. 



Robert Burns. 



POSTHUMOUS POEMS. 196 



PROLOGUE, 

SPOKEN" AT THE THEATRE, ELLISLAND, ON NEW- 
YEAR ? S DAY EVENING. 

No song nor dance I bring from yon great city 

That queens it o'er our taste — the more's the pity ; 

Tho', by the by, abroad why will you roam ? 

Good sense and taste are natives here at home : 

But not for panegyric I appear, 

I come to wish you all a good new-year ! 

Old Father Time deputes me here before ye, 

Not for to preach, but tell his simple story : 

The sage grave ancient cough'd, and bade me say, 

" You're one year older this important day," 

If wiser too — he hinted some suggestion, 

But 'twould be rude, you know, to ask the question ; 

And with a would-be roguish leer and wink, 

He bade me on you press this one word — " think I" 

Ye sprightly youths, quite flush with hope and spirit, 
Who think to storm the world by dint of merit, 
To you the dotard has a deal to say, 
In his sly, dry, sententious, proverb way ! 
He bids you mind, amid your thoughtless rattle, 
That the first blow is ever half the battle ; 
That tho' some by the skirt may try to snatch him ; 
Yet by the forelock is the hold to catch him ; 
That whether doing, suffering, or forbearing, 
You may do miracles by persevering. 

Last, tho' not least in love, ye youthful fair, 
Angelic forms, high Heaven's peculiar care ! 

k 2 



196 POSTHUMOUS POEMS. 

To you old Bald-pate smooths his wrinkled brow, 
And humbly begs you'll mind the important — now 
To crown your happiness he asks your leave, 
And offers bliss to give and to receive. 

For our sincere, tho' haply weak endeavours, 
With grateful pride we own your many favours ; 
And howsoe'er our tongues may ill reveal it, 
Believe our glowing bosoms truly feel it. 



ELEGY ON THE LATE MISS BURNET, 

OF MONEODDO. 

Life ne'er exulted in so rich a prize 
As Burnet, lovely from her native skies ; 
Nor envious death so triumph'd in a blow, 
As that which laid the accomplished Burnet low. 

Thy form and mind, sweet maid, can I forget I 

In richest ore the brightest jewel set ! 

In thee, high Heaven above was truest shown, 

As by his noblest work the Godhead best is known. 

In vain ye flaunt in summer's pride, ye groves ; 

Thou crystal streamlet with thy flowery shore, 
Ye woodland choir that chant your idle loves, 

Ye cease to charm — Eliza is no more ! 

Ye heathy wastes, immix'd with reedy fens ; 

Ye mossy streams, with sedge and rushes stored ; 
Ye rugged cliffs, o'erhanging dreary glens, 

To you I fly, ye with my soul accord. 



POSTHUMOUS POEMS. 197 

Princes, whose cumbrous pride was all their worth, 
Shall venal lays their pompous exit hail ? 

And thou, sweet excellence ! forsake our earth, 
And not a Muse in honest grief bewail ? 

We saw thee shine in youth and beauty's pride, 
And virtue's light, that beams beyond the spheres ; 

But like the sun eclips'd at morning tide, 
Thou left's t us darkling in a world of tears. 

The parent's heart that nestled fond in thee, 
That heart how sunk, a prey to grief and care ! 

So deckt the woodbine sweet yon aged tree, 
So from it ravish'd, leaves it bleak and bare. 



THE RIGHTS OF WOMAN: 

AN OCCASIONAL ADDRESS SPOKEN BY MISS FONTE- 
NELLE ON HER BENEFIT-NIGHT. 

While Europe's eye is fixed on mighty things, 
The fate of empires and the fall of kings ; 
While quacks of state must each produce his plan, 
And even children lisp the Rights of Man ; 
Amid this mighty fuss, just let me mention, 
The Rights of Woman merit some attention. 
First, in the sexes' intermix' d connexion, 
One sacred Right of Woman is protection. — 
The tender flower that lifts its head, elate, 
Helpless, must fall before the blasts of fate, 
Sunk on the earth, defac'd its lovely form, 
Unless your shelter ward th' impending storm. — 



198 POSTHUMOUS POEMS. 

Our second Right — but needless here is caution, 
To keep that right inviolate 's the fashion, 
Each man of sense has it so full before him, 
He'd die before he'd wrong it — 'tis decorum.- — 
There was, indeed, in far less polish 'd days, 
A time, when rough rude man had naughty ways ; 
Would swagger, swear, get drunk, kick up a riot, 
Nay, even thus invade a lady's quiet — 
Now, thank our stars ! those Gothic times are fled ; 
Now, well-bred men — and you are all well-bred — 
Most justly think (and we are much the gainers) 
Such conduct neither spirit, wit, nor manners. 

For Right the third, our last, our best, our dearest, 
That right to fluttering female hearts the nearest, 
Which even the Rights of Kings in low prostration 
Most humbly own — 'tis dear, dear admiration ! 
In that blest sphere alone we live and move ; 
There taste that life of life — immortal love. — 
Smiles, glances, sighs, tears, fits, flirtations, airs, 
'Gainst such a host what flinty savage dares — 
When awful Beauty joins with all her charms, 
Who is so rash as rise in rebel arms ? 

But truce with kings, and truce with constitutions, 
With bloody armaments and revolutions ; 
Let Majesty your first attention summon, 
Ah ! ca ira ! the Majesty of Woman ! 






POSTHUMOUS POEMS. 109 



ADDRESS, 

SPOKEN BY MISS FONTENELLE, ON HER BENEFIT- 
NIGHT, DECEMBER 4, 1795, AT THE THEATRE, 
DUMFRIES. 

Still anxious to secure your partial favour, 
And not less anxious sure, this night, than ever, 
A Prologue, Epilogue, or some such matter, 
'Twould vamp my bill, said I, if nothing better ; 
So sought a Poet, roosted near the skies, 
Told him I came to feast my curious eyes ; 
Said, nothing like his works was ever printed ; 
And last, my Prologue-business slily hinted. 
" Ma'am let me tell you," quoth my man of rhymes, 
" I know your bent — these are no laughing times : 
Can you — but Miss, I own I have my fears — 
Dissolve in pause — and sentimental tears ? 
With laden sighs, and solemn-rounded sentence, 
Rouse from his sluggish slumbers, fell Repentance ? 
Paint Vengeance as he takes his horrid stand, 
Waving on high the desolating brand, 
Calling the storms to bear him o'er a guilty land ?" 

I could no more — askance the creature eyeing, 
D'ye think, said I, this face was made for crying ! 
I'll laugh, that's poz — nay more, the world shall know it ; 
And so, your servant ! gloomy Master Poet ! 

Firm as my creed, Sirs, 'tis my fixed belief, 
That Misery's another word for Grief: 
I also think — so may I be a bride ! 
That so much laughter, so much life enjoy'd. 



200 POSTHUMOUS POEMS. 

Thou man of crazy care and ceaseless sigh, 
Still under bleak Misfortune's blasting eye ; 
Doomed to that sorest task of man alive — 
To make three guineas do the work of five : 
Laugh in misfortune's face — the beldam witch ! 
Say, you'll be merry, tho' you can't be rich. 

Thou other man of care, the wretch in love, 
Who long with jiltish arts and airs hast strove ; 
Who, as the boughs all temptingly project, 
Measur'st in desperate thought— a rope — thy neck ; 
Or, where the beetling cliff o'erhangs the deep, 
Peerest to meditate the healing leap : 
Would'st thou be cur'd, thou silly, moping elf? 
Laugh at her follies — laugh e'en at thyself: 
Learn to despise those frowns now so terrific, 
And love a kinder — that's your grand specific. 

To sum up all, be merry, I advise ; 
And as we're merry, may we still be wise. 



A VISION. 

As I stood by yon roofless tower, 

Where the wa '-flower scents the dewy air, 

Where the howlet mourns in her ivy bower, 
And tells the midnight moon her care. 

The winds were laid, the air was still, 
The stars they shot alang the sky, 

The fox was howling on the hill, 
And the distant-echoing glens reply. 



POSTHUMOUS POEMS. 201 

The stream, adown its hazelly path, 

Was rushing by the ruin'd wa', 
Hasting to join the sweeping Nith, 

Whase distant roarings swell and fa\ 

The cauld blue north was streaming forth 

Her lights, wi' hissing eerie din ; 
Athort the lift they start and shift, 

Like fortune's favours, tint as won. 

By heedless chance I turn'd mine eyes, 
And, by the moon-beam, shook to see 

A stern and stalwart ghaist arise, 
Attir'd as minstrels wont to be. 

Had I a statue been o' stane, 

His darin look had daunted me ; 
And on his bonnet grav'd was plain, 

The sacred posy — Libertie. 

And frae his harp sic strains did flow, 

Might rous'd the slumb'ring dead to hear ; 

But oh ! it was a tale of woe, 
As ever met a Briton's ear ! 

He sang wi' joy his former day, 

He weeping waiFd his latter times : 
But what he said it was nae play, 

I winna ventured in my rhymes. 



k 3 



202 POSTHUMOUS POEMS. 



Written on the blank leaf of a Copy of his Poems presented 
to a Lady, ivhom he had often celebrated tinder the name of 
Chloris. 

'Tis Friendship's pledge, my young, fair friend, 

Nor thou the gift refuse, 
Nor with unwilling ear attend 

The moralizing muse. 

Since thou, in all thy youth and charms, 

Must bid the world adieu 
(A world 'gainst peace in constant arms), 

To join the friendly few ; 

Since, thy gay morn of life overcast, 

Chill came the tempest's lour 
(And ne'er misfortune's eastern blast 

Did nip a fairer flower) ; 

Since life's gay scenes must charm no more, 

Still much is left behind ; 
Still nobler wealth hast thou in store, 

The comforts of the mind ! 

Thine is the self-approving glow 

On conscious honour's part ; 
And, dearest gift of heaven below, 

Thine friendship's truest heart. 

The joys refin'd of sense and taste, 

With every muse to rove ; 
And doubly were the poet blest 

These joys could he improve. 



PIECES 

SUBJOINED TO THE CORRESPONDENCE. 



ADDRESS TO MR. WILLIAM TYTLER, 

WITH THE PRESENT OF THE BARD'S PICTURE. 

Revered defender of beauteous Stuart, 

Of Stuart, a name once respected, 
A name, which to love was the mark of a true heart, 

But now 'tis despised and neglected. 

TW something like moisture conglobes in my eye, 

Let no one misdeem me disloyal ; 
A poor friendless wand'rer may well claim a sigh, 

Still more, if that wand'rer were royal. 

My fathers that name have rever'd on a throne ; 

My fathers have fallen to right it ; 
Those fathers would spurn their degenerate son, 

That name should he scoflingly slight it. 

Still in prayers for K — G — I most heartily join, 

The Q — , and the rest of the gentry, 
Be they wise, be they foolish, is nothing of mine ; 

Their title's avow'd by my country. 



204 POSTHUMOUS POEMS. 

But why of that epocha make such a fuss, 

*####*## * * * * * 

******* * * * * Tie- 
But loyalty truce! we're on dangerous ground, 

Who knows how the fashions may alter? 
The doctrine to-day, that is loyalty sound, 
To-morrow may bring us a halter ! 

I send you a trifle, a head of a bard, 

A trifle scarce worthy your care ; 
But accept it, good Sir, as a mark of regard, 

Sincere as a saint's dying prayer. 

Now life's chilly evening dim shades on your eye, 

And ushers the long dreary night : 
But you, like the star that athwart gilds the sky, 

Your course to the latest is bright. 



TO A GENTLEMAN 

WHO HAD SENT HIM A NEWSPAPER, AND OFFERED 
TO CONTINUE IT FREE OF EXPENSE. 

Kind Sir, IVe read your paper through, 
And faith, to me, 'twas really new ! 
How guess'd ye, Sir, what maist I wanted ? 
This mony a day IVe grain'd and gaunted, 
To ken what French mischief was brewin ; 
Or what the drumlie Dutch were doin ; 
That vile doup-skelper, Emperor Joseph, 
If Venus yet had got his nose off; 



POSTHUMOUS POEMS. 205 

Or how the collieshangie works 

Atween the Russians and the Turks ; 

Or if the Swede, before he halt, 

Would play anither Charles the twalt : 

If Denmark, ony body spak o't ; 

Or Poland, wha had now the tack o't ; 

How cut- throat Prussian blades were hingin, 

How libbet Italy was singin : 

If Spaniard, Portuguese, or Swiss, 

Were sayin or takin aught amiss ; 

Or how our merry lads at hame, 

In Britain's court, kept up the game ; 

How royal George, the Lord leuk o'er him ! 

Was managing St. Stephen's quorum ; 

If sleekit Chatham Will was livin, 

Or glaikit Charlie got his nieve in ; 

How daddie Burke the plea was cookin, 

If Warren Hastings' neck was yeukin ; 

How cesses, stents, and fees were rax'd, 

Or if bare a — s yet were tax'd; 

The news o* princes, dukes, and earls, 

Pimps, sharpers, bawds, and opera-girls ; 

If that daft buckie, Geordie W * * * s, 

Was threshin still at hizzies' tails, 

Or if he was grown oughtlins douser, 

And no a perfect kintra kooser. 

A' this and mair I never heard of; 

And but for you I might despair'd of. 

So gratefu', back your news I send you, 

And pray a' guid things may attend you ! 



206 POSTHUMOUS POEMS. 



ON PASTORAL POETRY. 

Hail, Poesie ! thou nymph reserved ! 

In chase o' thee, what crowds hae swerv'd 

Frae common sense, or sunk enerv'd 

'Mang heaps o' clavers ; 
And och ! owre aft thy joes hae starv'd, 

'Mid a' thy favours ! 

Say, Lassie, why thy train amang, 
While loud the trump's heroic clang, 
And sock or buskin skelp alang 

To death or marriage ; 
Scarce ane has tried the shepherd-sang 

But wi' miscarriage ? 

In Homer's craft Jock Milton thrives ; 
Eschylus' pen Will Shakespeare drives ; 
Wee Pope, the knurlin, till him rives 

Horatian fame ; 
In thy sweet sang, Barbauld, survives 

Even Sappho's flame. 

But thee, Theocritus, wha matches? 
They're no herds ballats, Maro's catches : 
Squire Pope but busks his skinklin patches 

O' heathen tatters : 
I pass by hunders, nameless wretches, 

That ape their betters. 



POSTHUMOUS POEMS. 207 

In this braw age o' wit and lear, 
Will nane the Shepherd's whistle mair 
Blaw sweetly in its native air 

And rural grace ; 
And wi' the far-fam'd Grecian, share 

A rival place ? 

Yes ! there is ane ; a Scottish callan ; 
There's ane ; come forrit, honest Allan ! 
Thou needna jouk behint the hallan, 

A chiel sae clever ; 
The teeth o' Time may gnaw Tamtallan, 

But thou's for ever. 

Thou paints auld nature to the nines, 

In thy sweet Caledonian lines ; 

Nae gowden stream thro' myrtles twines, 

Where Philomel, 
While nightly breezes sweep the vines, 

Her griefs will tell ! 

In gowany glens thy burnie strays, 
Where bonnie lasses bleach their claes ; 
Or trots by hazelly shaws and braes, 

Wi' hawthorns gray, 
Where blackbirds join the shepherd's lays 

At close o' day. 

Thy rural loves are nature's seF ; 
Nae bombast spates o' nonsense swell ; 
Nae snap conceits, but that sweet spell 

O' witchin love, 
That charm that can the strongest quel], 

The sternest move. 



208 POSTHUMOUS POEMS. 



ON THE BATTLE OF SHERIFF-MUIR, 

BETWEEN THE DUKE OF ARGYLL AND THE EARL OF 
MAR. 

" O cam ye here the fight to shun, 

Or herd the sheep wi' me, man ? 
Or were ye at the Sherra-muir, 

And did the battle see, man?" 
I saw the battle, sair and tough, 
And reeking-red ran mony a sheugh, 
My heart, for fear, gae sough for sough, 
To hear the thuds, and see the cluds 
O' clans frae woods, in tartan duds, 

Wha glaum'd at kingdoms three, man. 

The red-coat lads, wi' black cockades, 

To meet them werena slaw, man ; 
They rush'd and push'd, and blude outgush'd, 

And mony a bouk did fa', man : 
The great Argyll led on his files, 
I wat they glanced twenty miles : 
They hack'd and hash'd, while broad-swords clash'd, 
And thro' they dash'd, and hew'd and smash'd, 

'Till fey men died awa, man. 

But had you seen the philibegs, 

And skyrin tartan trews, man, 
When in the teeth they dar'd our whigs, 

And covenant true blues, man ; 



POSTHUMOUS POEMS. 209 

In lines extended lang and large, 
When bayonets oppos'd the targe, 
And thousands hasten'd to the charge, 
Wi' Highland wrath they frae the sheath 
Drew blades o' death, till, out o' breath, 
They fled like frighted doos> man. 

" O how deil, Tarn, can that be trne? 

The chase gaed frae the north, man : 
I saw mysel, they did pursue 

The horsemen back to Forth, man ; 
And at Dumblane, in my ain sight, 
They took the brig wi' a' their might, 
And straught to Stirling wing'd their flight ; 
But, cursed lot ! the gates were shut, 
And mony a huntit, poor red -coat, 

For fear amaist did swarf, man." 

My sister Kate cam up the gate 

Wi' crowdie unto me, man ; 
She swore she saw some rebels run 

Frae Perth unto Dundee, man : 
Their left-hand general had nae skill, 
The Angus lads had nae guid-will 
That day their neebors blood to spill ; 
For fear, by foes, that they should lose 
Their cogs o' brose — all crying woes, 

And so it goes you see, man. 

They've lost some gallant gentlemen 

Amang the Highland clans, man ; 
I fear my lord Panmure is slain, 

Or fallen in whiggish hands, man : 



2L0 POSTHUMOUS POEMS. 

Now wad ye sing this double fight, 
Some fell for wrang, and some for right ; 
But mony bade the world guid-night ; 
Then ye may tell, how pell and mell, 
By red claymores, and muskets' knell, 
Wi' dying yell, the tories fell, 
And whigs to hell did flee, man. 



SKETCH.— NEW YEAR'S DAY. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

This day, Time winds th' exhausted chain, 
To run the twelvemonth's length again : 
I see the old, bald-pated fellow, 
With ardent eyes, complexion sallow, 
Adjust the unimpair'd machine, 
To wheel the equal, dull routine. 

The absent lover, minor heir, 
In vain assail him with their prayer, 
Deaf as my friend, he sees them press, 
Nor makes the hour one moment less. 
Will you (the major's with the hounds, 
The happy tenants share his rounds ; 
Coila's fair Rachael's care to-day, 
And blooming Keith's engaged with Gray) 
From housewife cares a minute borrow — 
— That grandchild's cap will do to-morrow— 
And join with me a moralizing, 
This day's propitious to be wise in. 
First, what did yesternight deliver ? 
" Another year is gone for ever." 



POSTHUMOUS POEMS. 211 

And what is this day's strong suggestion ? 
" The passing moment's all we rest on V 9 
Rest on — for what ? what do we here ? 
Or why regard the passing year? 
Will Time, amus'd with proverb'd lore, 
Add to our date one minute more ? 
A few days may — a few years must — 
Repose us in the silent dust. 
Then is it wise to damp our bliss ? 
Yes — all such reasonings are amiss \ 
The voice of nature loudly cries, 
And many a message from the skies, 
That something in us never dies ; 
That on this frail, uncertain state, 
Hang matters of eternal weight ; 
That future life in worlds unknown 
Must take its hue from this alone ; 
Whether as heavenly glory bright, 
Or dark as misery's woful night. — 
Since then, my honour'd, first of friends, 
On this poor being all depends ; 
Let us th' important now employ, 
And live as those that never die. 
Tho' you, with days and honours crown'd, 
Witness that filial circle round 
(A sight — life's sorrows to repulse, 
A sight — pale envy to convulse), 
Others may claim your chief regard ; 
Yourself, you wait your bright reward. 



212 POSTHUMOUS POEMS. 

EXTEMPORE, 

ON THE LATE MR. WILLIAM SMELL1E, 

AUTHOR OF THE PHILOSOPHY OF NATURAL HISTORY, AND MEMBER OF THE 
ANTIQUARIAN AND ROYAL SOCIETIES OF EDINBURGH. * 

To Crochallan came 
The old cock'd hat, the grey surtout, the same ; 
His bristling beard just rising in its might, 
'Twas four long nights and days to shaving night ; 
His uncomVd grizzly locks, wild staring, thatch'd 
A head, for thought profound and clear, unmatch'd ; 
Yet tho' his caustic wit was biting, rude, 
His heart was warm, benevolent, and good. 



POETICAL INSCRIPTION 

FOR AN 

ALTAR TO INDEPENDENCE, 

AT KERROUGHTRY, THE SEAT OF MR. HERON. WRITTEN IN SUMMER, 1795. 

Thou of an independent mind, 

With soul resolv'd, with soul resign'd ; 

Prepar'd Power's proudest frown to brave, 

Who wilt not be, nor have a slave ; 

Virtue alone who dost revere, 

Thy own reproach alone dost fear, 

Approach this shrine, and worship here. 



POSTHUMOUS POEMS. 213 

SONNET, 

ON THE DEATH OF ROBERT RIDDEL, ESQ. 
OF GLENRIDDEL; APRIL, 1794. 

No more, ye warblers of the wood, no more, 
Nor pour your descant, grating, on my soul ; 
Thou young-eyed Spring, gay in thy verdant stole, 

More welcome were to me grim Winter's wildest roar. 

How can ye charm, ye flow'rs, with all your dyes ? 
Ye blow upon the sod that wraps my friend : 
How can I to the tuneful song attend ? 

That strain flows round th' untimely tomb where Riddel 
lies. 

Yes, pour, ye warblers, pour the notes of woe, 
And sooth the Virtues weeping on his bier : 
The Man of Worth, who has not left his peer, 

Is in his " narrow house" for ever darkly low. 

Thee, Spring, again with joy shall others greet ; 
Me, mem'ry of my loss will only meet. 



MONODY 

ON A LADY FAMED FOR HER CAPRICE. 

How cold is that bosom which folly once fir'd, 

How pale is that cheek where the rouge lately 
glisten'd ! 

How silent that tongue which the echoes oft tir'd, 
How dull is that ear which to flattery so listen'd ! 



214 POSTHUMOUS POEMS. 

If sorrow and anguish their exit await, 

From friendship and dearest affection remov'd; 

How doubly severer, Eliza, thy fate, 

Thou diedst unwept, as thou livedst unlov'd. 

Loves, Graces, and Virtues, I call not on you ; 

So shy, grave, and distant, ye shed not a tear: 
But come, all ye offspring of Folly so true, 

And flowers let us cull for Eliza's cold bier. 

We'll search thro' the garden for each silly flower, 
Well roam thro' the forest for each idle weed ; 

But chiefly the nettle, so typical, shower, 

For none e'er approach'd her but rued the rash deed. 

We'll sculpture the marble, we'll measure the lay ; 

Here Vanity strums on her idiot lyre ; 
There keen Indignation shall dart on her prey, 

Which spurning Contempt shall redeem from his ire. 



THE EPITAPH. 

Here lies, now a prey to insulting neglect, 

What once was a butterfly, gay in life's beam : 

Want only of wisdom denied her respect, 
Want only of goodness denied her esteem. 



POSTHUMOUS POEMS. 215 

ANSWER TO A MANDATE 

Sent by the surveyor of the Windows, Carriages, Sfc. to each 
Farmer, ordering him to send a signed list of his horses, 
servants, wheel-carriages, §c. and whether he was a married 
man or a bachelor, and what children they had. 

Sir, as your mandate did request, 
I send you here a faithfu' list, 
My horses, servants, carts, and graith, 
To which I'm free to tak my aith. 

Imprimis, then, for carriage cattle, 
I hae four brutes o' gallant mettle, 
As ever drew before a pettle. 
My hand-afore, a guid auld has-been, 
And wight and wilfu' a' his days seen ; 
My hand-a-hin, a guid brown filly, 
Wha aft has borne me safe frae Killie, 
And your auld borough, mony a time, 
In days when riding was na crime : 
My fur-a-hin, a guid, gray beast, 
As e'er in tug or tow was trac'd : 
The fourth, a Highland Donald hasty, 
A d-mn'd red-wud, Kilburnie blastie. 
For-by a cowte, of cowtes the wale, 
As ever ran before a tail ; 
An* he be spar'd to be a beast, 
He'll draw me fifteen pund at least. 

Wheel carriages I hae but few, 
Three carts, and twa are feckly new ; 
An auld wheel -barrow, mair for token, 
Ane leg and baith the trams are broken : 
I made a poker o' the spindle, 
And my auld mither brunt the trundle. 
For men, Fve three mischievous boys, 
Run-deils for rantin and for noise ; 



216 POSTHUMOUS POEMS. 

A gadsman ane, a thresher tother, 
Wee Davoc hauds the nowte in fother. 
I rule them, as I ought, discreetly, 
And often labour them completely, 
And ay on Sundays duly nightly, 
I on the questions tairge them tightly, 
Till faith wee Davoc's grown sae gleg, 
(Tho' scarcely langer than my leg,) 
He'll screed you off effectual calling, 
As fast as ony in the dwalling. 

Fve nane in female servant station, 
Lord keep me ay frae a' temptation ! 
I hae nae wife, and that my bliss is, 
And ye hae laid nae tax on misses; 
For weans I'm mair than weel contented, 
Heaven sent me ane mair than I wanted ; 
My sonsie, smirking, dear-bought Bess, 
She stares the daddie in her face, 
Enough of ought ye like but grace. 
But her, my bonny, sweet, wee lady, 
I've said enough for her already, 
And if ye tax her or her mither, 
By the L — d ye'se get them a' thegither ! 

And now, remember, Mr. Aiken, 
Nae kind of licence out I'm taking. 
Thro dirt and dub for life I'll paidle, 
Ere I sae dear pay for a saddle ; 
I've sturdy stumps, the lord be thanked ! 
And a' my gates on foot I'll shank it. 
This list wi' my ain hand I've wrote it, 
The day and date as under noted ; 
Then know all ye whom it concerns, 
Subscripsi huic, 

ROBERT BURNS. 



POSTHUMOUS POEMS. 217 

IMPROMPTU, ON MRS. 'S BIRTH-DAY, 

NOVEMBER 4, 1793. 

Old Winter with his frosty beard, 
Thus once to Jove his prayer preferr'd ; 
What have I done, of all the year, 
To bear this hated doom severe ? 
My cheerless suns no pleasure know ; 
Night's horrid car drags, dreary, slow ; 
My dismal months no joys are crowning, 
But spleeny English, hanging, drowning. 

Now, Jove, for once be mighty civil, 

To counterbalance all this evil; 

Give me, and I've no more to say, 

Give me Maria's natal day ! 

That brilliant gift will so enrich me, 

Spring, Summer, Autumn, cannot match me ; 

'Tis done ! says Jove ; so ends my story, 

And Winter once rejoic'd in glory. 



TO A YOUNG LADY, 

MISS JESSY L , DUMFRIES; 

WITH BOOKS WHICH THE BARD PRESENTED HER. 

Thine be the volumes, Jessy fair, 
And with them take the Poet's prayer ; 
That fate may in her fairest page, 
With every kindliest, best presage 
Of future bliss, enrol thy name ; 
With native worth, and spotless fame, 

L 



218 POSTHUMOUS POEMS. 

And wakeful caution still aware 
Of ill — but chief, man's felon snare : 
Ail blameless joys on earth we find, 
And all the treasures of the mind — 
These be thy guardian and reward ; 
So prays thy faithful friend, the Bard, 



SONNET, 

WRITTEN ON THE 25TH OF JANUARY, 1793, 

THE BIRTH-DAY OF THE AUTHOR, ON HEARING A THRUSH SING IN A MORN- 
ING WALK. 

Sing on, sweet Thrush, upon the leafless bough; 
Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain : 
See aged Winter, 'mid his surly reign, 

At thy blithe carol clears his furrow'd brow. 

So in lone Poverty's dominion drear 

Sits meek Content with light unanxious heart, 
Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them part, 

Nor asks if they bring aught to hope or fear. 

I thank thee, Author of this opening day ! 

Thou whose bright sun now gilds the orient skies ! 

Riches denied, thy boon was purer joys, 
What wealth could never give nor take away ! 

Yet come, thou child of poverty and care ; 
The mite high Heav'n bestow'd, that mite with thee 
111 share. 



POSTHUMOUS POEMS. 219 



EXTEMPORE, TO MR. S * * E, 

On refusing to dine with him, after having been promised the 
first of company, and the first of cookery ; 17th December, 
1795. 

No more of your guests, be they titled or not, 

And cook'ry the first in the nation ; 
Who is proof to thy personal converse and wit, 

Is proof to all other temptation. 



TO MR. S**E, 

WITH A PRESENT OF A DOZEN OF PORTER. 

O, had the malt thy strength of mind, 
Or hops the flavour of thy wit, 

'Twere drink for first of human kind, 
A gift that e'en for S * * e were fit. 

Jerusalem Tavern, Dumfries. 



TO MR. MITCHELL, 

COLLECTOR OF EXCISE, DUMFRIES, 1796. 

Friend of the Poet, tried and leal, 
Wha, wanting thee, might beg or steal ; 
Alake, alake, the meikle deil 

Wi' a' his witches 
Are at it, skelpin ! jig and reel, 

In my poor pouches. 
l2 



220 POSTHUMOUS POEMS. 

I modestly fu' fain wad hint it, 
That one pound one, I sairly want it : 
If wi' the hizzie down ye sent it, 

It would be kind ; 
And while my heart wi' life-blood dunted, 

I'd bear't in mind. 

So may the auld year gang out moaning 
To see the new come laden, groaning, 
Wi' double plenty o'er the loanin 

To thee and thine ; 
Domestic peace and comforts crowning 

The hale design. 



POSTSCRIPT. 

Ye've heard this while how I've been licket, 
And by fell death was nearly nicket: 
Grim loun ! he gat me by the fecket, 

And sair me sheuk ; 
But by guid luck I lap a wicket, 

And turn'd a neuk. 

But by that health, I Ve got a share o't, 
And by that life, I'm promis'd mair o't, 
My heal and weal I'll take a care o't 

A tentier way : 
Then fareweel folly, hide and hair o't, 

For ance and aye. 



POSTHUMOUS POEMS. 221 



SENT TO A GENTLEMAN WHOM HE HAD OFFENDED. 

The friend whom wild from wisdom's way 
The fumes of wine infuriate send 

(Not moony madness more astray) ; 
Who but deplores that hapless friend ? 

Mine was th' insensate frenzied part, 
Ah why should I such scenes outlive ? 

Scenes so abhorrent to my heart ! 
'Tis thine to pity and forgive. 



ON LIFE, 

TO COLONEL DE PEYSTER, DUMFRIES, 1796. 

My honour'd colonel, deep I feel 
Your interest in the Poet's weal ; 
Ah ! now sma' heart hae I to speel 

The steep Parnassus, 
Surrounded thus by bolus pill, 

And potion glasses. 

O what a canty warld were it, 

Would pain, and care, and sickness spare it ; 

And fortune favour worth and merit, 

As they deserve : 
(And aye a rowth, roast beef and claret; 

Syne wha wad starve ?) 



222 POSTHUMOUS POEMS. 

Dame Life, tho' fiction out may trick her, 
And in paste gems and fripp'ry deck her; 
Oh ! flick'ring, feeble, and unsicker 

I've found her still, 
Aye wav'ring like the willow wicker, 

'Tween good and ill. 

Then that curst carmagnole, auld Satan, 
Watches, like baudrans by a rattan, 
Our sinfu' saul to get a claut on 

Wi' felon ire ; 
Syne, whip ! his tail ye '11 ne'er cast saut on, 

He's aff like fire. 

Ah Nick ! ah Nick ! it isna fair, 
First shewing us the tempting ware, 
Bright wines and bonnie lasses rare, 

To put us daft ; 
Syne weave, unseen, thy spider snare 

O' hell's damn'd waft. 

Poor man, the flie, aft bizzies by, 
And aft as chance he comes thee nigh, 
Thy auld damn'd elbow yeuks with joy, 

And hellish pleasure ; 
Already in thy fancy's eye, 

Thy sicker treasure. 

Soon heels-o'er-gowdy ! in he gangs, 
And like a sheep-head on a tangs, 
Thy girning laugh enjoys his pangs 

And murd'ring wrestle, 
As, dangling in the wind, he hangs 

A gibbet's tassel. 






POSTHUMOUS POEMS. 223 

But lest you think I am uncivil, 

To plague you with this draunting drivel, 

Abjuring a' intentions evil, 

I quat my pen : 
The Lord preserve us frae the devil ! 

Amen! amen! 



ADDRESS TO THE TOOTHACH. 

WRITTEN BY THE AUTHOR AT A TIME WHEN HE WAS 
GRIEVOUSLY TORMENTED BY THAT DISORDER. 

My curse upon thy venom'd stang, 
That shoots my tortur'd gums alang ; 
And thro' my lugs gies mony a twang, 

Wi' gnawing vengeance ; 
Tearing my nerves wi' bitter pang, 

Like racking engines ! 

When fevers burn, or ague freezes, 
Rheumatics gnaw, or colic squeezes ; 
Our neighbour's sympathy may ease us, 

Wi' pitying moan ; 
But thee — thou hell o' a' diseases, 

Aye mocks our groan ! 

Adown my beard the slavers trickle ! 
I throw the wee stools o'er the mickle, 
As round the fire the giglets keckle 

To see me loup ; 
While raving mad, I wish a heckle 

Were in their doup. 



224 POSTHUMOUS POEMS. 

O' a' the numerous human dools, 
111 har'sts, daft bargains, cutty-stools y 
Or worthy friends rak'd i' the mools, 

Sad sight to see ! 
The tricks o' knaves, or fash o' fools, 

Thou bear'st the gree. 

Where'er that place be priests ca' hell, 
Whence a' the tones o' mis'ry yell, 
And ranked plagues their numbers tell, 

In dreadfu' raw, 
Thou, Toothach, surely bear'st the bell 

Amang them a* ! 

O thou grim mischief-making chiel, 
That gars the notes of discord squeel, 
Till daft mankind aft dance a reel 

In gore a shoe-thick ; — 
Gie a' the faes o' Scotland's weal 

A towmond's Toothach ! 



WRITTEN IN A WRAPPER 

ENCLOSING A LETTER TO CAPT. GROSE, TO BE LEFT 
WITH MR. CARDONNEL, ANTIQUARIAN. 

TUNE — Sir John Malcolm. 

Ken ye ought o' Captain Grose? 

Igo, fy ago. 
If he's amang his friends or foes ? 

Irani, coram, dago. 






POSTHUMOUS POEMS. 225 

Is he South, or is he North ? 

Igo, Sf ago. 
Or drowned in the river Forth ? 

Iram, coram, dago. 

Is he slain by Highland bodies ? 

Igo, $r ago. 
And eaten like a weather-haggis ? 

Iram, coram, dago. 

Is he to Abram's bosom gane ? 

Igo, 8? ago. 
Or haudin Sarah by the wame? 

Iram, coram, dago. 

Where'er he be, the Lord be near him ! 

Igo, Sf ago. 
As for the deil, he daurna steer him, 

Iram, coram, dago. 

But please transmit th* enclosed letter, 

Igo, Sr ago. 
Which will oblige your humble debtor, 
Iram, coram, dago. 

So may ye hae auld stanes in store, 

Igo, §• ago. 
The very stanes that Adam bore, 

Iram, coram, dago. 

So may ye get in glad possession ; 

Igo, Sr ago. 
The coins o' Satan's coronation ! 

Iram, coram, dago. 
L3 



226 POSTHUMOUS POEMS. 

TO 

ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ. OF FINTRY, 

ON RECEIVING A FAVOUR. 

I call no goddess to inspire my strains, 
A fabled Muse may suit a bard that feigns ; 
Friend of my life ! my ardent spirit burns, 
And all the tribute of my heart returns, 
For boons accorded, goodness ever new, 
The gift still dearer, as the giver you. 

Thou orb of day ! thou other paler light ! 
And all ye many sparkling stars of night ; 
If aught that giver from my mind efface ; 
If I that giver's bounty e'er disgrace ; 
Then roll to me, along your wand'ring spheres, 
Only to number out a villain's years ! 



EPITAPH ON A FRIEND. 

An honest man here lies at rest, 
As e'er God with his image blest ; 
The friend of man, the friend of truth ; 
The friend of age, and guide of youth : 
Few hearts like his, with virtue warm'd, 
Few heads with knowledge so informed : 
If there's another world, he lives in bliss ; 
If there is none, he made the best of this. 



POSTHUMOUS POEMS. 227 



A GRACE BEFORE DINNER. 

O thou, who kindly dost provide 

For every creature's want ! 
We bless thee, God of Nature wide, 

For all thy goodness lent : 
And, if it please thee, Heavenly Guide, 

May never worse be sent ; 
But whether granted, or denied, 

Lord, bless us with content ! 

A men ! 



ON SENSIBILITY. 

TO MY DEAR AND MUCH HONOURED FRIEND, 
MRS. DUNLOP, OF DUNLOP. 

Sensibility, how charming, 
Thou, my friend, canst truly tell ; 

But distress with horrors arming, 
Thou hast also known too well! 

Fairest flower, behold the lily, 

Blooming in the. sunny ray: 
Let the blast sweep o'er the valley, 

See it prostrate on the clay. 

Hear the wood-lark charm the forest, 

Telling o'er his little joys ; 
Hapless bird ! a prey the surest 

To each pirate of the skies. 



228 POSTHUMOUS POEMS. 

Dearly bought the hidden treasure, 
Finer feelings can bestow ; 

Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasure 
Thrill the deepest notes of woe. 



A VERSE 

Composed and repeated by Burns, to the Master of the House, 
on taking leave at a place in the Highlands, where he had been 
hospitably entertained. 

When death's dark stream I ferry o'er, 

A time that surely shall come ; 
In Heaven itself, I'll ask no more, 

Than just a Highland welcome. 



RELIQUES OF BURNS. 



VERSES WRITTEN AT SELKIRK. 



Auld chuckie Reekie's sair distrest 
Down droops her ance weel burnish't crest, 
Nae joy her bonnie buskit nest 

Can yield ava, 
Her darling bird that she lo'es best, 

Willie's awa! 

II. 

O Willie was a witty wight, 
And had o' things an unco slight ; 
Auld Reekie aye he keepit tight, 

An' trig an* braw : 
But now they'll busk her like a fright, 

Willie's awa ! 

in. 

The stiffest o' them a' he bow'd ; 
The bauldest o' them a' he cow'd ; 
They durst nae mair than he allow'd, 

That was a law : 
We've lost a birkie weel worth gowd> 

Willie's awa ! 



230 RELIQUES OF BURNS. 



IV. 

Now gawkies, tawpies, gowks, and fools, 
Frae colleges and boarding-schools, 
May sprout like simmer puddock-stools 

In glen or shaw; 
He wha could brush them down to mools, 

Willie's aw a ! 



The brethren o' the Commerce-Chaumer 
May mourn their loss wi' doolfu' clamour; 
He was a dictionar and grammar 

Amang them a* ; 
I fear they'll now mak mony a stammer, 

Willie's awa ! 

VI. 

Nae mair we see his levee door 
Philosophers and Poets pour, 
And toothy critics by the score, 

In bloody raw ! 
The adjutant o' a' the core, 

Willie's awa ! 

VII. 

Now worthy Gregory's latin face, 
Tytler's and Greenfield's modest grace ; 
M'Kenzie, Stuart, such a brace 

As Rome ne'er saw; 
They a' maun meet some ither place, 

Willie's awa ! 



RELIQUES OF BURNS. 281 



VIII. 

Poor Burns e'en Scotch drink canna quicken, 
He cheeps like some bewilder'd chicken 
Scar'd frae its minnie and the cleckin 

By hoodie-craw ; 
Griefs gien his heart an unco kickin', 

Willie's awa ! 

IX. 

Now ev'ry sour-mou'd girnin' blellurn, 
And Calvin's fock, are fit to fell him ; 
And self-conceited critic skellum 

His quill may draw ; 
He wha could brawlie ward their bellum, 

Willie's awa ! 

x. 

Up wimpling stately Tweed I've sped, 
And Eden scenes on crystal Jed, 
And Ettrick banks now roaring red, 

While tempests blaw ; 
But every joy and pleasure's fled, 

Willie's awa ! 

XI. 

May I be slander's common speech ; 
A text for infamy to preach ; 
And lastly, streekit out to bleach 

In winter snaw ; 
When I forget thee, Willie Creech, 

Tho' far awa ! 



232 RELIQUES OF BURNS. 



XII. 

May never wicked fortune touzle him ! 
May never wicked men bamboozle him ! 
Until a pow as auld's Methusalem 

He canty claw ! 
Then to the blessed New Jerusalem, 

Fleet wing awa ! 



LIBERTY. 

A FRAGMENT. 

Thee, Caledonia, thy wild heaths among, 
Thee, famed for martial deed and sacred song, 

To thee I turn with swimming eyes ; 
Where is that soul of freedom fled ? 
Immingled with the mighty dead ! 

Beneath the hallow'd turf where Wallace lies ! 
Hear it not, Wallace, in thy bed of death ! 

Ye babbling winds, in silence sweep ; 

Disturb not ye the hero's sleep, 
Nor give the coward secret breath. — 

Is this the power in freedom's war, 

That wont to bid the battle rage ? 
Behold that eye which shot immortal hate, 

Crushing the despot's proudest bearing, 
That arm which, nerved with thundering fate, 

Brav'd usurpation's boldest daring ! 
One quench'd in darkness like the sinking star, 
And one the palsied arm of tottering, powerless age. 



RELIQUES OF BURNS. 233 

ELEGY 

ON THE DEATH OF ROBERT RUISSEAUX 1 . 



Now Robin lies in his last lair, 

He'll gabble rhyme, nor sing nae mair, 

Canld poverty, wi' hungry stare, 

Nae mair shall fear him ; 
Nor anxious fear, nor cankert care 

E'er mair come near him. 

To tell the truth, they seldom fash't him, 
Except the moment that they crush't him ; 
For sune as chance or fate had husht 'em, 

Tho' e'er sae short, 
Then wi' a rhyme or sang he lasht 'em, 

And thought it sport. — 

Tho' he was bred to kintra wark, 

And counted was baith wight and stark, 

Yet that was never Robin's mark 

To mak a man; 
But tell him, he was learn'd and dark, 

Ye roos'd him than 2 ! 

1 Ruisseaux — a play on his own name. 
' 2 Ye roos'd — ye prais'd. 



234 RELIQUES OF BURNS. 

ANSWER TO VERSES 

ADDRESSED TO THE POET BY THE GUIDWIFE OF 
WAUCHOPE-HOUSE. 
GUIDWIFE, 

I mind it weel, in early date, 

When I was beardless, young and blate, 

An* first could thresh the barn, 
Or haud a yokin at the pleugh, 
An' tho' forfoughten sair eneugh, 

Yet unco proud to learn : 
When first amang the yellow corn 

A man I reckoned was, 
And wi' the lave ilk merry morn 
Could rank my rig and lass, 
Still shearing, and clearing 

The tither stooked raw, 
Wi* claivers, an' haivers, 
Wearing the day awa. 

Ev'n then a wish, (I mind its power,) 
A wish that to my latest hour 

Shall strongly heave my breast; 
That I for poor auld Scotland's sake, 
Some useful plan, or beuk could make, 

Or sing a sang at least. 
The rough bur-thistle, spreading wide 

Amang the bearded bear, 
I turn'd my weeding heuk aside, 
An' spar'd the symbol dear. 
No nation, no station, 

My envy e'er could raise ; 
A Scot still, but blot still, 
I knew nae higher praise. 



RELIQUES OF BURNS. 9$5 

But still the elements o' sang 

In formless jumble, right and wrang, 

Wild floated in my brain ; 
Till on that hairst I said before, 
My partner in the merry core, 

She rous'd the forming strain : 
I see her yet, the sonsie quean, 

That lighted up her jingle, 
Her witching smile, her pauky een, 
That gart my heart-strings tingle ; 
I fired, inspired, 

At ev'ry kindling keek, 
But bashing, and dashing, 
I feared aye to speak. 

Heal to the set, ilk guid chiel says, 
Wi' merry dance in winter days, 

An' we to share in common : 
The gust o' joy, the balm of woe, 
The saul o' life, the heav'n below, 

Is rapture-giving woman. 
Ye surly sumphs, who hate the name, 

Be mindfu' o' your mither : 
She, honest woman, may think shame 
That ye're connected with her, 
Ye're wae men, ye're nae men, 
That slight the lovely dears ; 
To shame ye, disclaim ye, 
Ilk honest birkie swears. 

For you, no bred to barn and byre, 
Wha sweetly tune the Scottish lyre, 

Thanks to you for your line : 
The marbled plaid ye kindly spare, 
By me should gratefully be ware ; 

'Twad please me to the nine. 



236 RELIQUES OF BURNS. 

I'd be mair vauntie o' my hap, 

Douse hingin' o'er my curple, 
Than ony ermine ever lap, 
Or proud imperial purple. 
Fareweel then, lang heal then, 

An* plenty be your fa' : 
May losses and crosses 
Ne'er at your hallan ca\ 

March, 1787. 



BURNS EXTEMPORE 

ON THE 

LOYAL NATIVES* VERSES. 



At a period of our Poet's life, when political animosity was made the 
ground of private quarrel, the following foolish verses were sent as 
an attack on Burns and his friends for their political opinions. They 
were written by some member of a club styling themselves the Loyal 
Natives of Dumfries, or rather by the united genius of that club, 
which was more distinguished for drunken loyalty, than either for 
respectability or poetical talent. The verses were handed over the 
table to Burns at a convivial meeting, and he instantly indorsed the 
subjoined reply. 



THE LOYAL NATIVES' VERSES. 

Ye sons of sedition, give ear to my song, 

Let Syme, Burns, and Maxwell, pervade every 

throng, 
With Craken the attorney, and Mundell the quack, 
Send Willie the monger to hell with a smack. 



RELIQUES OF BURNS. 237 



BURNS — EXTEMPORE. 



Ye true " Loyal Natives," attend to my song, 

In uproar and riot rejoice the night long; 

From envy and hatred your corps is exempt ; 

But where is your shield from the darts of contempt? 



TO J. LAPRAIK. 

Sept. 13th, 17S5, 

Guid speed an' furder to you, Johny, 
Guid health, hale han's, and weather bonnie ; 
Now when ye're nickan down fu* cannie 

The staff o' bread, 
May ye ne'er want a stoup o' branny 

To clear your head . 

May Boreas never thresh your rigs, 
Nor kick your rickles aff their legs, 
Sendin' the stuff o'er muirs an' hags 

Like drivin' wrack ; 
But may the tapmost grain that wags 

Come to the sack. 

I'm bizzie too, an' skelpin' at it, 

But bitter, daudin showers hae wat it, 

Sae my auld stumpie pen I gat it 

Wi' muckle wark, 
An' took my jocteleg an' whatt it, 

Like ony clerk. 



238 RELIQUES OF BURNS. 

It's now twa month that I'm your debtor, 
For your braw, nameless, dateless letter, 
Abusin' me for harsh ill-nature 

On holy men, 
While deil a hair yoursel ye 're better, 

But mair profane. 

But let the kirk-folk ring their bells, 
Let's sing about our noble sels ; 
We'll cry nae jads frae heathen hills 

To help, or roose us, 
But browster wives an' whiskie stills, 

They are the muses. 

Your friendship, Sir, I winna quat it, 

An' if ye mak objections at it, 

Then han' in nieve some day we'll knot it. 

An' witness tak, 
An* when wi' Usquebae we've wat it 

It winna break. 

But if the beast and branks be spar'd 
Till kye be gaun without the herd, 
An' a' the vittel in the yard, 

An' theekit right, 
I mean your ingle-side to guard 

Ae winter night. 

Then muse-inspirin' aqua-vitae 

Shall make us baith sae blithe an' witty, 

Till ye forget ye 're auld an' gatty, 

An' be as canty 
As ye were nine years less than thretty, 

Sweet ane an' twenty ! 



RELIQUES OF BURNS. 231) 

But stooks are cowpet wi? the blast, 
An' now the sinn keeks in the west, 
Then I maun rin amang the rest 

An' quat my chanter ; 
Sae I subscribe mysel in haste, 

Your's, Rab the Ranter. 



TO THE REV. JOHN M'MATH. 

ENCLOSING A COPY OF HOLY WILLIE'S PRAYER, 
WHICH HE HAD REQUESTED. 

Sept. 17th, 1785. 

While at the stook the shearers cour 
To shun the bitter blaudin' show'r, 
Or in gulravage rinnin scour 

To pass the time, 
To you I dedicate the hour 

In idle rhyme. 

My musie, tir'd wi' mony a sonnet 

On gown, an' ban', an* douse black bonnet, 

Is grown right eerie now she's done it, 

Lest they shou'd blame her, 
An' rouse their holy thunder on it, 

And anathem her. 

I own 'twas rash, an' rather hardy, 
That I, a simple countra bardie, 
Shou'd meddle wi' a pack so sturdy, 

Wha, if they ken me, 
Can easy, wi' a single wordie, 

Loose h-11 upon me. 



240 RELIQUES OF BURNS. 

But I gae mad at their grimaces, 
Their sighing canting grace-proud faces, 
Their three-mile prayers and hauf-mile graces, 

Their raxin' conscience, 
Whase greed, revenge, an' pride disgraces 

Waur nor their nonsense. 



There's Gaun 1 , miska't waur than a beast, 
Wha has mair honour in his breast 
That mony scores as guid's the priest 

Wha sae abus'd him ; 
An' may a bard no crack his jest 

What way they've us'd him ? 

See him 2 , the poor man's friend in need, 
The gentleman in word an^ deed, 
An' shall his fame an' honour bleed 

By worthless skellums, 
An' no a muse erect her head 

To cowe the blellums ? 



O Pope, had I thy satire's darts 
To gie the rascals their deserts, 
I'd rip their rotten, hollow hearts, 

An' tell aloud 
Their jugglin' hocus-pocus arts 

To cheat the crowd. 



1 Gavin Hamilton, Esq> 

2 The poet has introduced the two first lines of this stanza into the 
dedication of his works to Mr. Hamilton. 



RELIQUES OF BURNS. 241 

God knows, I'm no the thing I shou'd be, 
Nor am I even the thing I could be, 
But, twenty times, I rather would be 

An atheist clean, 
Than under gospel colours hid be, 

Just for a screen. 

An honest man may like a glass, 
An honest man may like a lass, 
But mean revenge, an' malice fause, 

He'll still disdain, 
An' then cry zeal for gospel laws, 

Like some we ken. 

They tak religion in their mouth ; 
They talk o' mercy, grace, an' truth, 
For what ? to gie their malice skouth 

On some puir wight, 
An' hunt him down, o'er right an' ruth, 

To ruin straight. 

All hail, Religion! maid divine! 
Pardon a muse sae mean as mine, 
Who in her rough imperfect line, 

Thus daurs to name thee ; 
To stigmatize false friends of thine 

Can ne'er defame thee. 

Tho' blotch't an' foul wi' mony a stain, 

An' far unworthy of thy train, 

Wi' trembling voice I tune my strain 

To join wi' those, 
Who boldly daur thy cause maintain 

In spite o' foes : 

M 



242 RELIQUES OF BURNS. 

In spite o' crowds, in spite o' mobs, 
In spite of undermining jobs, 
In spite o' dark banditti stabs 

At worth an' merit, 
By scoundrels, even wi' holy robes, 

But hellish spirit. 

O Ayr ! my dear, my native ground ! 
Within thy presbyterial bound, 
A candid lib'ral band is found 

Of public teachers, 
As men, as christians too, renown'd, 

An' manly preachers. 

Sir, in that circle you are nam'd ; 
Sir, in that circle you are fam'd ; 
An* some, by whom your doctrine's blanTd, 

(Which gies you honour), 
Even, Sir, by them your heart's esteem'd, 

An' winning manner. 

Pardon this freedom I have ta'en, 
An' if impertinent I've been, 
Impute it not, good Sir, in ane 

Whase heart ne'er wrang'd ye, 
But to his utmost would befriend 

Ought that belang'd ye. 



RELIQUES OF BURNS. 243 

TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ. 

MAUCHLINE. 
(RECOMMENDING A BOY.) 

Mosgaville, May 3, 178G. 

I hold it, Sir, my bounden duty, 
To warn you how that Master Tootie, 

Alias, Laird M'Gaun 1 , 
Was here to lure the lad away 
'Bout whom ye spak the tither day, 

An' wad hae don't aff ban' ; 
But lest he learn the callan tricks, 

As faith I muckle doubt him, 
Like scrapin' out auld Crummie's nicks, 
An' tellin' lies about them ; 
As lieve then I'd have then 

Your clerkship he should sair, 
If sae be, ye may be 
Not fitted otherwhere. 

Altho' I say't, he's gleg enough, 

An' 'bout a house that's rude an' rough, 

The boy might learn to swear ; 
But then wi' you, he'll be sae taught, 
An' get sic fair example straught, 

I havena ony fear. 

1 Master Tootie then lived in Manchline ; a dealer in Cows, h 
was his common practice to cut the nicks or markings from the honu 
of cattle, to disguise their age. — He was an artful trick-contriving cha 
racter; hence he is called a Snick-drawer, In the Poet's " Aadrest 
to the Deil" he styles that august personage an auld, snick-drau-i ■■., 
dog! E. 

m2 



244 RELIQUES OF BURNS. 

Yell catechize him every quirk, 

•An* shore him weel wi' hell; 

An' gar him follow to the hirk 

— Aye when ye gang yoursel. 
If ye then, maun be then 

Frae hame this comin' Friday, 
Then please, Sir, to lea'e, Sir, 
The orders wi' your lady. 

My word of honour I hae gi'en, 

In Paisley John's, that night at e'en, 

To meet the Warld's worm : 
To try to get the twa to gree, 
An 1 name the airles an* the fee, 

In legal mode an' form : 
I ken ye weel a snick can draw, 

When simple bodies let him ; 
An' if a Devil be at a', 

In faith he's sure to get him. 
To phrase you and praise you, 
Ye ken your Laureat scorns : 
The prayer still, you share still, 
Of grateful Minstrel 

Burns. 



RELIQUES OF BURNS. 245 



MR. M'ADAM, OF CRAIGEN-GILLAN, 

IN ANSWER TO AN OBLIGING LETTER HE SENT IN 
THE COMMENCEMENT OF MY POETIC CAREER. 

Sir, o'er a gill I gat your card, 

I trow it made me proud ; 
" See wha taks notice o' the bard!" 

I lap and cry'd fu' loud. 

Now deil-ma-care about their jaw, 

The senseless, gawky million ; 
I'll cock my nose aboon them a', 

I'm rous'd by Craigen-Gillan! 

'Twas noble, Sir ; 'twas like yoursel, 

To grant your high protection : 
A great man's smile, ye ken fu' weel, 

Is aye a blest infection. 

Tho', by his 1 banes wha in a tub 

Match'd Macedonian Sandy ! 
On my ain legs, thro dirt and dub, 

I independent stand aye. — 

And when those legs to guid warm kail 

Wi' welcome canna bear me ; 
A lee dyke-side, a sy bow-tail, 
v And barley-scone shall cheer me. 

1 Diogenes. 



24(> RELIQUES OF BURNS. 

Heaven spare you lang to kiss the breath 

O' mony flow'ry simmers ! 
And bless your bonnie lasses baith, 

I'm tauld they're loosome kimmers ! 

And God bless young Dunaskin's laird, # 

The blossom of our gentry ! 
And may he wear an auld man's beard, 

A credit to his country. 



TO 

CAPTAIN RIDDEL, GLENRIDDEL. 

(extempore lines on returning a newspaper.) 

Ellisland, Monday Evening. 

Your news and review, Sir, I've read through and 
through, Sir, 

With little admiring or blaming; 
The papers are barren of home-news or foreign, 

No murders or rapes worth the naming. 

Our friends the reviewers, those chippers and hewers, 

Are judges of mortar and stone, Sir ; 
But of meet, or unmeet, in afabrick complete, 

I'll boldly pronounce they are none, Sir. 

My goose-quill too rude is to tell all your goodness 

Bestow'd on your servant, the Poet ; 
Would to God I had one like a beam of the sun, 

And then all the world, Sir, should know it ! 



RELIQUES OF BURNS. 247 

TO TERRAUGHTY, 

[MR. MAXWELL, OF TERRAUGHTY, NEAR DUMFRIES,] 
ON HIS BIRTH-DAY. 

Health to the Maxwells' vet'ran Chief! 
Health, aye unsour'd by care or grief : 
Inspired, I turn'd Fate's sibyl leaf 

This natal morn, 
I see thy life is stuif o' prief, 

Scarce quite half worn. — 

This day thou metes threescore eleven, 
And I can tell that bounteous Heaven 
(The second-sight, ye ken, is given 

To ilka Poet) 
On thee a tack o' seven times seven 

Will yet bestow it. 

If envious buckies view wi' sorrow 

Thy lengthen'd days on this blest morrow, 

May desolation's lang-teeth'd harrow, 

Nine miles an hour, 
Rake them, like Sodom and Gomorrah, 

In brunstane stoure — 

But for thy friends, and they are mony, 
Baith honest men and lasses bonnie, 
May couthie fortune, kind and cannie, 

In social glee, 
Wi' mornings blithe and e'enings funny 

Bless them and thee ! 



248 RELIQUES OF BURNS. 

Fareweel, auld birkie ! Lord be near ye, 
And then the Deil he daurna steer ye : 
Your friends aye love, your faes aye fear ye ; 

For me, shame fa' me, 
If niest my heart I dinna wear ye 

While Burns they ca' me. 



TO A LADY, 

WITH A PRESENT OF A PAIR OF DRINKING-GLASSES . 

Fair Empress of the Poet's soul, 

And Queen of Poetesses ; 
Clarinda, take this little boon, 

This humble pair of glasses. — 

And fill them high with generous juice, 

As generous as your mind ; 
And pledge me in the generous toast — 

" The whole of human kind/" 

" To those who love us V — second fill; 

But not to those whom we love ; 
Lest we love those who love not us ! 

A third — " to thee and me, love /" 



RELIQUES OF BURNS. 249 



THE VOWELS. 

A TALE. 

Twas where the birch and sounding thong are ply'd, 

The noisy domicile of pedant pride ; 

Where ignorance her darkening vapour throws, 

And cruelty directs the thickening blows ; 

Upon a time, Sir Abece the great, 

In all his pedagogic powers elate, 

His awful chair of state resolves to mount, 

And call the trembling vowels to account. 

First enter'd A, a grave, broad, solemn wight, 
But ah ! deform'd, dishonest to the sight ! 
His twisted head look'd backward on his way, 
And flagrant from the scourge, he grunted, ai ! 

Reluctant, E stalk 'd in ; with piteous grace 
The justling tears ran down his honest face ! 
That name, that well-worn name, and all his own, 
Pale he surrenders at the tyrant's throne ! 
The pedant stifles keen the Roman sound 
Not all his mongrel diphthongs can compound ; 
And next, the title following close behind, 
He to the nameless, ghastly wretch assign'd. 

The cobweb'd gothic dome resounded, Y ! 
In sullen vengeance, I disdain'd reply : 
The pedant swung his felon cudgel round, 
And knock'd the groaning vowel to the ground ! 

In rueful apprehension enter'd O, 
The wailing minstrel of despairing woe ; 
Th' Inquisitor of Spain the most expert 
Might there have learnt new mysteries of his art : 

M 3 



250 RELIQUES OF BURNS. 

So grim, deform'd with horrors, entering U 
His dearest friend and brother scarcely knew ! 

As trembling U stood staring all aghast, 
The pedant in his left hand clutch'd him fast, 
In helpless infants' tears he dipp'd his right, 
Baptized him eu, and kick'd him from his sight. 



SKETCH. 



The following Sketch seems to be one of a Series intended for a pro- 
jected work, under the title of " The Poet's Progress." This cha- 
racter was sent as a specimen, accompanied by a letter, to Professor 
Dugald Stewart, in which it is thus noticed : " The fragment be- 
ginning A little, upright, pert, tart, 8$c. I have not shown to any 
man living till I now send it to you. It forms the postulata, the 
axioms, the definition of a character, which, if it appear at all, 
shall be placed in a variety of lights. This particular part I send 
you merely as a sample of my hand at portrait sketching. " 



A little, upright, pert, tart, tripping wight, 
And still his precious self his dear delight ; 
Who loves his own smart shadow in the streets, 
Better than e'er the fairest she he meets : 
A man of fashion too, he made his tour, 
Learned vive la bagatelle, et vive V amour ; 
So travell'd monkeys their grimace improve, 
Polish their grin, nay, sigh for ladies' love. 
Much specious lore, but little understood ; 
Veneering oft outshines the solid wood : 
His solid sense — by inches you must tell, 
But mete his cunning by the old Scots ell ; 
His meddling vanity, a busy fiend, 
Still making work his selfish craft must mend. 



RELIQUES OF BURNS. 251 

SCOTS PROLOGUE, 

for mr. Sutherland's benefit-night, Dumfries. 

What needs this din about the town o' Lon'on, 
How this new play an' that new sang is comin' I 
Why is outlandish stuff sae meikle courted ? 
Does nonsense mend like whisky, when imported ? 
Is there nae poet, burning keen for fame, 
Will try to gie us sangs and plays at hame ? 
For comedy abroad he needna toil, 
A fool and knave are plants of every soil ; 
Nor need he hunt as far as Rome and Greece 
To gather matter for a serious piece ; 
There's themes enough in Caledonian story, 
Would show the tragic muse in a' her glory. — 

Is there no daring bard will rise, and tell 
How glorious Wallace stood, how hapless fell ? 
Where are the muses fled that could produce 
A drama worthy o' the name o' Bruce ; 
How here, even here, he first unsheath'd the sword 
'Gainst mighty England and her guilty lord ; 
And after mony a bloody, deathless doing, 
Wrench'd his dear country from the jaws of ruin? 
O for a Shakspeare or an Otway scene, 
To draw the lovely, hapless Scottish Queen ! 
Vain all th' omnipotence of female charms 
'Gainst headlong, ruthless, mad Rebellion's arms. 
She fell, but fell with spirit truly Roman, 
To glut the vengeance of a rival woman : 



252 RELIQUES OF BURNS. 

A woman, tho' the phrase may seem uncivil, 
As able and as cruel as the Devil ! 
One Douglas lives in Home's immortal page, 
But Douglases were heroes every age : 
And tho' your fathers, prodigal of life, 
A Douglas followed to the martial strife, 
Perhaps, if bowls row right, and Right succeeds, 
Ye yet may follow where a Douglas leads ! 

As ye hae generous done, if a' the land 
Would tak the muses' servants by the hand ; 
Not only hear, but patronize, befriend them, 
And where ye justly can commend, commend them ; 
And aiblins when they winna stand the test, 
Wink hard and say, the folks hae done their best ! 
Would a" the land do this, then 111 be caution 
Ye'll soon hae poets o' the Scottish nation, 
Will gar fame blaw until her trumpet crack, 
And warsle time an' lay him on his back ! 

For us and for our stage should ony spier, 
" Whase aught thae chiels maks a' this bustle here ?' ; 
My best leg foremost, I'll set up my brow, 
We hae the honour to belong to you ! 
We're your ain bairns, e'en guide us as ye like, 
But like good mithers, shore before ye strike — 
And gratefu' still I hope ye'll ever find us, 
For a' the patronage and meikle kindness 
We've got frae a* professions, sets and ranks : 
God help us ! we're but poor — ye'se get but thanks* 



RELIQUES OF BURNS. 258 

AN EXTEMPORANEOUS EFFUSION, 

ON BEING APPOINTED TO THE EXCISE. 

Searching auld wives' barrels, 

Och, ho ! the day ! 
That clarty barm should stain my laurels ; 

But — what'll ye say ! 
These movin things, ca'd wives and weans, 
Wad move the very hearts o' stanes ! 



THE DEAN OF FACULTY. 

A NEW BALLAD. 
Tune— The Dragon of Wantley. 

Dire was the hate at old Harlaw 

That Scot to Scot did carry ; 
And dire the discord Langside saw, 

For beauteous, hapless Mary : 
But Scot with Scot ne'er met so hot, 

Or were more in fury seen, Sir, 
Than 'twixt Hal and Bob for the famous job- 

Who should be Faculty's Dean, Sir. — 

This Hal for genius, wit, and lore, 

Among the first was number'd ; 
But pious Bob, 'mid learning's store, 

Commandment tentli remember'd. — 
Yet simple Bob the victory got, 

And wan his heart's desire ; 
Which shews that heaven can boil the pot, 

Though the devil p — s in the fire. — 



254 RELIQUES OF BURNS. 

Squire Hal besides had, in this case, 

Pretensions rather brassy, 
For talents to deserve a place 

Are qualifications saucy ; 
So their worships of the Faculty, 

Quite sick of merit's rudeness, 
Chose one who should owe it all, d'ye see, 

To their gratis grace and goodness. — 

As once on Pisgah purg'd was the sight 

Of a son of Circumcision, 
So maybe, on this Pisgah height, 

Bob's purblind, mental vision, 
Nay, Bobby's mouth may be open'd yet, 

Till for eloquence you hail him, 
And swear he has the Angel met 

That met the Ass of Balaam. — 



EXTEMPORE IN THE COURT OF SESSION. 

T U N E — Gillicrankie. 

LORD A TE. 

He clench'd his pamphlets in his fist, 

He quoted and he hinted, 
Till in a declamation-mist, 

His argument, he tint it : 
He gaped for't, he graped for't, 

He fand it was awa, man ; 
But what his common sense came short, 

He eked out wi' law, man. 



RELIQUES OF BURNS. 2&5 



MR. ER — NE. 

Collected Harry stood awee, 

Then open'd out his arm, man ; 
His lordship sat wi' ruefu' ee, 

And eyd the gathering storm, man : 
Like wind-driv'n hail it did assail, 

Or torrents owre a linn, man ; 
The Bench sae wise lift up their eyes, 

Half-wauken'd wi 1 the din, man, 



VERSES TO J. RANKEN. 

The Person to whom his Poem on shooting the Partridge is 
addressed, while Ranken occupied the Farm of Adam Hill, 
in Ayrshire* 

Ae day, as Death, that grusome carl, 
Was driving to the tither warF 
A mixtie-maxtie motley squad, 
And mony a guilt-bespotted lad ; 
Black gowns of each denomination, 
And thieves of every rank and station, 
From him that wears the star and garter, 
To him that wintles 1 in a halter ; 
Asham'd himsel to see the wretches, 
He mutters, glowrin at the bitches, 



1 The word Wintle denotes sudden and involuntan, motion. In 
the ludicrous sense in which it is here applied, it ma) be admirably 
translated by the vulgar London expression of Dancing upon nothing. 



256 RELIQUES OF BURNS. 

" By G-d I'll not be seen behint them, 
Nor 'mang the spiritual core present them, 
Without, at least, ae honest man, 

To grace this d d infernal clan." 

By Adamhill a glance he threw, 
" L— d G-d V quoth he, " I have it now, 
There's just the man I want, i' faith," 
And quickly stoppit Ranken's breath. 



ON HEARING THAT THERE WAS FALSEHOOD IN THE 

REV. DR. B 'S VERY LOOKS. 

That there is falsehood in his looks 

I must and will deny : 
They say their master is a knave — 

And sure they do not lie. 



ON A 

SCHOOLMASTER IN CLEISH PARISH, 

FIFES HI RE. 

Here lie Willie M — hie's banes, 

O Satan, when ye tak him, 
Gie him the schoolin' of your weans ; 

For clever Deils hell mak 'em ! 



RELIQUES OF BURNS. 257 

ADDRESS TO GENERAL DUMOURIER. 

(A PARODY ON ROBIN ADAIR.) 

You're welcome to Despots, Dumourier; 

You're welcome to Despots, Dumourier. — 

How does Dampiere do ? 

Ay, and Bournonville too? 

Why did they not come along with you, Dumourier ! 

I will fight France with you, Dumourier, — 

I will fight France with you, Dumourier : — 

I will fight France with you, 

I will take my chance with you ; 

By my soul I'll dance a dance with you, Dumourier. 

Then let us fight about, Dumourier ; 

Then let us fight about, Dumourier ; 

Then let us fight about, 

'Till freedom's spark is out, 

Then we'll be d-mned, no doubt — Dumourier. 



ELEGY ON THE YEAR 1788 

A SKETCH. 

For Lords or Kings I dinna mourn, 
E'en let them die — for that they're born : 
But oh ! prodigious to reflec' ! 
A Towmond, Sirs, is gane to wreck ! 
O Eighty -eight, in thy sma' space 
What dire events ha'e taken place ! 



258 RELIQUES OF BURNS. 

Of what enjoyments thou hast reft us I 
In what a pickle thou hast left us ! 

The Spanish empire's tint a head, 
An' my auld teethless Bawtie's dead ; 
The tulzie's sair 'tween Pitt an' Fox, 
And 'tween our Maggie's twa wee cocks ; 
The tane is game, a bluidie devil, 
But to the hen-birds unco civil ; 
The tither's something dour o' treadin, 
But better stuff ne'er claw'd a midden. — 

Ye ministers, come mount the poupit, 
An' cry till ye be haerse an' roupet, 
For Eighty -eight he wish'd you weel, 
An' gied you a' baith gear an' meal ; 
E'en mony a plack, and mony a peck, 
Ye ken yoursels, for little feck ! — 

Ye bonnie lasses, dight your een, 
For some o' you hae tint a frien' ; 
In Eighty-eight ye ken, was ta'en 
What ye'll ne'er hae to gie again. 

Observe the very nowte an' sheep, 
How dowf and daviely they creep ; 
Nay, even the yirth itsel does cry, 
For E'nbrugh wells are grutten dry. 

O Eighty -nine, thou's but a bairn, 
An' no owre auld, I hope, to learn ! 
Thou beardless boy, I pray tak care, 
Thou now has got thy Daddy's chair ? 



REL1QUES OF BURNS. 259 

Nae hand-cufFd, mizzl'd, hap-shaekFd Regent, 
But; like himsel, a full free agent. 
Be sure ye follow out the plan 
Nae waur than he did, honest man ! 
As muckle better as you can. 

January 1, 1789. 



VERSES. 

Written under the Portrait of Fergusson the Poet, in a Copy 
of that Author s Works presented to a young Lady in Edin- 
burgh, March 19th, 1787. 

Curse on ungrateful man, that can be pleas'd, 
And yet can starve the author of the pleasure ! 
O thou, my elder brother in misfortune, 
By far my elder brother in the muses, 
With tears I pity thy unhappy fate ! 
Why is the bard unpitied by the world, 
Yet has so keen a relish of its pleasures ? 



FIRST LINES OF THE SONGS. 

Page 

A ROSE-BUD by my early walk 3 

Adieu! a heart-warm, fond adieu 4 

Adown winding Nith I did wander 5 

Ae fond kiss, and then we sever 7 

Again rejoicing Nature sees 8 

Altho' my bed were in yon muir 9 

Amang the trees where humming bees 10 

An' O for ane and twenty, Tarn 11 

Ance mair I hail thee, thou gloomy December 12 

Anna, thy charms my bosom fire 12 

As I was a wand'ring ae morning in spring 13 

Awa wi' your witchcraft o' beauty's alarms 13 

Behind yon hills where Lu gar flows 14 

Behold the hour, the boat arrive 15 

Beyond thee, dearie, beyond thee, dearie 16 

Blithe, blithe and merry was she 17 

Blithe hae I been on yon hill 18 

Bonnie lassie, will ye go, will ye go, will ye go 19 

Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing 20 

But lately seen in gladsome green ., 21 

By Allan stream 1 chanc'd to rove 22 

By yon Castle wa', at the close of the day 23 

Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy 23 

Ca' the yowes to the knowes 24 

Clarinda, mistress of my soul 25 

Come, let me take thee to my breast 26 

Contented wi' little, and cantie wi' mair 27 

Deluded swain, the pleasure 27 

Does haughty Gaul invasion threat * 28 

Duncan Gray came here to woo 30 

Fairest maid on Devon banks 31 

Farewell, thou fair day, thou green earth, and ye skies... 32 

Farewell, thou stream lhat winding flows 33 

Farewell, ye dungeons dark and strong 34 

Fate gave the word, the arrow sped 35 



FIRST LINES OF THE SONGS. 261 

First when Maggy was my care 36 

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes 37 

Forlorn, my love, no comfort near 38 

From thee, Eliza, I must go 39 

Gane is the day, and mirk's the night 39 

Go fetch to me a pint o' wine 40 

Green grow the rashes, O 41 

Had I a cave on some wild distant shore 42 

Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie 42 

Here is the glen, and here the bower 43 

Here's a bottle and an honest friend 44 

Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear 44 

Here's a health to them that's awa 45 

Her flowing locks, the raven's wing 46 

How can my poor heart be glad 47 

How cruel are the parents 48 

How lang and dreary is the night 49 

Husband, husband, cease your strife 50 

I do confess thou art sae fair 51 

I dream'd I lay where flowers were springing 52 

I gaed a waefu' gate, yestreen 53 

I hae a wife o' my ain 53 

I'll aye ca' in by yon town 54 

I'll kiss thee yet, yet 55 

In simmer when the hay w r as mawn 56 

Is there, for honest poverty 57 

It was the charming month of May 59 

It was upon a Lammas night 61) 

Jockey's ta'en the parting kiss , 61 

John Anderson my jo, John (j2 

Lassie wi' the lint-white locks 63 

Last May, a braw wooer cam down the lang glen 64 

Let not woman e'er complain 65 

Long, long the night 66 

Loud blaw the frosty breezes 67 

Louis, what reck I by thee 68 

Mark yonder pomp of costly fashion 68 



262 FIRST LINES OF THE SONGS, 

Pa?e 

Musing on the roaring ocean 69 

My Chloris, mark how green the groves 70 

My Father was a Farmer upon the Carrick border, O ... 71 

My heart is a breaking, dear Tittie 73 

My heart is sair I darena tell 75 

My heart's in the highlands, my heart is not here 75 

My Peggy's face, my Peggy's form 76 

Nae gentle dames, tho' e'er sae fair 77 

No churchman am I for to rail and to write 78 

Now bank and brae are claith'd in green 79 

Now in her green mantle blithe nature arrays 80 

Now rosy May comes in wi' flowers 81 

Now spring has clad the groves in green 82 

Now westlin winds and slaught'ring guns 83 

O bonnie was yon rosy brier .< 85 

O gin my love were yon red rose 86 

O how can I be blithe and glad 87 

O ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten 88 

O lassie, art thou sleeping yet 89 

O \eeze me on my spinning wheel 91 

O Logan, sweetly didst thou glide 92 

O Luve will venture in where it daurna weel be seen...., 93 

O Mary, at thy window be 95 

O May, thy morn was ne'er sae sweet 96 

O meikle thinks my luve o' my beauty 96 

O mirk, mirk is this midnight hour 97 

O, my luve's like a red, red rose 98 

O, once I lovd a bonnie lass 99 

O Philly, happy be that day 100 

O poortith cauld, and restless love 102 

O raging fortune's withering blast 103 

O saw ye bonnie Lesley 104 

O saw ye my dear, my Phely? 105 

O stay, sweet warbling wood-lark, stay 106 

O tellna me o' wind and rain 90 

O this is no my ain lassie 107 

O Tibbie, I hae seen the day , 108 

O, wat ye wha's in yon town 109 

O, were I on Parnassus hill Ill 

O wha is she that lo'es me 112 



FIRST LINES OF THE SONGS. 2G3 

Pare 

O wha my babie-clouts will buy 113 

O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad 114 

O, Willie brew'd a peck o' maut . 115 

Of a' the airts the wind can blaw 110 

Oh, open the door, some pity to shew 116 

Oh, Avert thou in the cauld blast 117 

On Cessnock banks there lives a lass 118 

One night as I did wander 120 

Out over the Forth I look to the north 120 

Powers celestial, whose protection , 121 

Raving winds around her blowing 121 

Sae flaxen were her ringlets 122 

Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled 124 

She is a winsome wee thing 125 

She's fair and fause that causes my smart 126 

Should auld acquaintance be forgot 126 

Sleep'st thou, or wak'st thou, fairest creature 128 

Stay, my charmer, can you leave me ... 129 

Streams that glide in orient plains 129 

Sweet fa's the eve on Craigie-burn 130 

The Catrine woods were yellow seen 131 

The day returns, my bosom burns 132 

The Deil cam liddling thro' the town 133 

The gloomy night is gath'ring fast 133 

The heather was blooming, the meadows were mawn 135 

The lasy mist hangs from the brow of the hill 136 

The lovely lass o' Inverness 136 

The smiling spring comes in rejoicing 137 

The Thames flows proudly to the sea 138 

The winter it is past, and the simmer comes at last 138 

Their groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign lands reckon .... 139 

There was a lass, and she was fair 140 

There was once a day, but old Time then was young 142 

There's auld Rob Morris that wons in yon glen 144 

There's braw braw lads on Yarrow braes 145 

There's a youth in this city, it were a great pity 1 »."> 

There was a lad was born at Kyle 146 

Thickest night, o'erhang my dwelling 148 



264 FIRST LINES OF THE SONGS. 

Page 

JFhine am I, my faithful fair 148 

Tho' cruel fate should bid us part 149 

Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, Thou hast left me ever... 150 

To thee, lov'd Nith, thy gladsome plains 150 

True hearted was he the sad swain o' the Yarrow 151 

'Twas even — the dewy fields were green 152 

'Twasoa her bonnie blue ee was my ruin 153 

Turn again, thou fair Eliza 154 

Up in the morning's no for me 155 

Wae is my heart, and the tear's in my ee 156 

Wha is that at my bower door 156 

What can a young lassie, what shall a young lassie 157 

When first I came to Stewart Kyle 158 

When o'er the hill the eastern star 159 

When wild war's deadly blast was blawn 160 

Where are the joys I have met in the morning 162 

Where braving angry winter's storms , 163 

Where Cart rins rowin to the sea 164 

While larks witn little wing 165 

Why, why tell thy lover 166 

Willie Wastle dwalt on Tweed 166 

Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary 168 

Wilt thou be my dearie 169 

Ye banks, and braes, and streams around ..» 170 

Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon — ... 171 

Ye gallants bright, I red you right 172 

Yestreen I had a pint o' wine 173 

Yon wild mossy mountains sae lofty and wide 174 

Young Jockey was the blithest lad 175 

Young Peggy blooms our bonniest lass 176 

To a young lady with a present of songs 177 



C. WHITTINGHAM, COLLEGE HOUSE, CHISWlCK. 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



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